


Empty souls

by flavialikestodraw, Potix



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Inspired by the movie "Dead Again", Sherlolly - Freeform, Sherlolly Big Bang Challenge, Sherlolly au, mollock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 05:38:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5572942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flavialikestodraw/pseuds/flavialikestodraw, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potix/pseuds/Potix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1950, composer Rainer Zweig is due to be executed in California for the vicious murder of his wife Margaret. In 2005 London, a mute amnesiac woman shows up at King’s College Hospital, and young consulting detective Sherlock Holmes is called to help the police. What he first believes is just a waste of his precious time, soon makes Sherlock question his faith in rationalism and logic.<br/>A Sherlolly AU, inspired by Kenneth Branagh's movie "Dead Again".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flavialikestodraw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flavialikestodraw/gifts).



> Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. Scott Frank owns "Dead Again" screenplay, and Kenneth Branagh could own me, if he only wanted to... I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies.  
> Thanks to my Beta Meldee for giving light to what I left in the dark, to my cheerleader Lisa for her precious support, and to my dear Flavialikestodraw for her amazing artwork and encouragement.

_"For empty souls will stand alone_  
_Shivering like black-eyed dogs_  
_Waiting to be taken home_  
_Where that is they only know"_

**"Empty Souls"- Manic Street Preachers**

* * *

 

_**California State Prison - September 4th, 1950** _

Kitty Riley had always prided herself in being a self-confident woman. From the first day she decided that she wanted to be an investigative journalist, she had sworn to herself that she wouldn't let anything, or anyone, have the upper hand on her, which included the ability to surprise or even scare her. 

As she walked down the aisle of the prison with an air of confidence, she did not allow anything to alarm her. She turned a blind eye to the prisoners whistling at her red-clad figure who were all proposing a variety of filthiness that included her in various positions with a varying degree of men. They were nothing more than an annoyance to her. No, she wasn't scared of what was about to occur. Nervous, yes, but who wouldn't be in her situation given what was at stake? She had dedicated the past six months to find a way to meet with one of the most important celebrities of their time face to face. However, all her efforts thus far ended in vain. Sure, she had the odd phone interview, but she was never given an indication that this man wanted to see her. Every single time she asked about a face to face interview, she was met with a sneer and a clear indication that he found her absolutely repulsive and that he would never want to see her face. Then, suddenly and completely out of the blue, she had been summoned by him with the offer of an exclusive interview face to face. His last interview and her ticket to fame.

The guard leading her stopped without a warning in front of a dark, nearly pitch black, cell, causing Kitty to halt her steps abruptly. She released a deep breath she had been holding, waiting for the cell door to be opened. Finally, she could meet the man who had monopolized her working days for half a year face to face. There was a lone lamp hanging from the ceiling in a corner once Kitty had peered inside. In the half-light of the cell, she was forced to squint her eyes in order to locate the prisoner.

"Come in, Ms. Riley." A deep, baritone voice welcomed her, the voice oozing with amusement and secrets that had Kitty itching for her pen and paper to capture every word.

As she took the first step into the cell, she noticed another guard within standing behind her host. To her surprise, the guard was cutting the prisoner’s hair. She decided that it was time for her to have a cigarette to de-stress the situation. Most men found it disturbing that a woman would smoke so freely, but she was curious to see if the great and famous Rainer Zweig was one of them. She took out the lighter and flicked it on, the flame let her take in the cell's wallpaper. Her eyes widened in shock as she realized the walls were covered entirely by her articles detailing the whole narration of his story from beginning to end. She felt a huge swell of pride and self-confidence that this man kept track of everything she wrote about him, but that quickly disappeared as she heard him speak.

"As you can see, I've become quite a fan of yours." The prisoner smirked, his eyes watching Kitty as if she were the interviewee instead of the interviewer, “Of course, that’s only because your articles about me are either completely sensationalized or they’re as close to the truth as anyone will get. I must say, you are just as repulsive in person as I suspected you were. I was smart to wait until my last moments to grant you this face to face interview you so strongly desired.”

Kitty eyed the empty chair in the room and sat down, taking care to blow smoke in his direction in a flippant way. She knew better than to make a mistake or to show any weakness. Too much was riding on this interview and she couldn’t do anything to upset her host, regardless of if he was in a cell or not. Besides, most people would do anything to have the exclusive she did now and she wanted to make sure that her efforts would not be in vain. Kitty leaned back against the chair and took in another breath of smoke, blowing it in his direction once more before speaking.

"I'm flattered that you think my writing is of high quality. Is that why you've asked me to come down to death row, Mr. Zweig? I found it a bit strange that you contacted me, you know...The last time we talked, I recall you telling me that I repelled you and that you refused to have a face to face interview with me.” She told him casually, taking care to emphasize that he did not want to have her around.

Rainer ignored her reply and got right down to business, saying coolly, "I'd like you to print something." 

Kitty was not surprised by his bluntness. After all, his rudeness was almost as famous as his talent. The last time she had interviewed him, she nearly walked out at the numerous times he interrupted her or refused to answer her questions. But she knew that this was the last interview he was ever going to have and she refused to let a single word be altered or rewritten. Kitty knew that she would sometimes bend words to make her articles stand out, but all of her articles about the man in front of her were never changed and were written word for word. She refused to change that now that he was on death row. 

"Really? And what makes you think that I would do it? After all, you rejected my requests to tell your side of the story multiple times." Kitty hissed, her polite tone now clipped with irritation.

Rainer leaned forward in the light, his recognizable dark locks had gone and his hair now clipped to the scalp. "I'd like you to print that I said I loved my wife."

The journalist almost scoffed at his statement. "You loved your wife. Sure."

The ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. "And that I'll love her...Forever."

"Of course. Forever. All right." She verbally scoffed this time before pausing, waiting for him to add something else, a desperate plea, a confession, maybe.

Instead, he simply began to hum a song she didn't recognise, as if he were alone in the cell, the man now completely ignoring her. Kitty was at her wit’s end, completely annoyed. This was the reason why she was summoned? To print that Reiner Zweig loved his wife and that he would love her forever? There had to be something more! She refused to believe that those two statements were all Reiner wanted to say. 

The guard who was cutting Reiner’s hair put the scissors down on a small bed table. It was at that point Kitty realized that she didn’t have much time left, so she got up and asked abruptly,

"Aren't you afraid to die, Mr. Zweig?"

"To die is different from what anyone supposes. And luckier." Was the reply given to her, Kitty blinking at the cold and hollow voice that came out of Reiner.

Kitty couldn't suppress a nervous chuckle at this point, the voice giving her a cold chill down her spine. She knew she was now treading on thin ice. She had seen a glimpse of this side of the man once before and it nearly had her running out the cell. She noticed Reiner watching her steadily, as if waiting for her to regain her composure before they continued. Kitty gave the man a charming smile and focused once again on getting her confession.

"Is that a line from your opera?" She inquired, trying to make light of the situation.

His smile oozed sarcasm as he replied, "It's Walt Whitman. I can't take credit for everything, Ms. Riley."

She sat down again, angry at herself for showing her ignorance. She once again exhaled a thin, steady stream of smoke in Rainer's direction, only this time it was slightly shaky. 

"You really believe that you're lucky to die?" She asked him, raising an eyebrow at the man in front of her. 

Suddenly, Rainer reached out and removed a lock of his hair from the table that divided them, causing Kitty to jump slightly. She watched as he examined it closely, his eyes savouring the consistency between his fingertips, before letting it fall down before he began speaking again.

"What I believe, Ms. Riley, is that this is all far from over." 

Right on cue, the warden and several prison guards appeared at the cell's door. Kitty felt as if she were in one of the novels she read, the ones that focused on the reporter about to be murdered by the criminal they were interviewing right in front of the guards as a confession came from the criminal. She hoped that she wasn’t going to be the reporter who ended up dead over a confession. Then again...what a way to go in her line of work. She shook her head slightly. No, she wanted to live to admire her fame. Sparing a glance at the warden and guards, she nodded when the warden pointed to his watch. Turning her attention back to Reiner, Kitty placed her hands on her lap and asked,

"But you still killed her. Didn't you, Herr Zweig?"

The man spared a look at the warden and his group then slowly got up and bent down, putting his mouth to her ear and murmuring something into it that caused her eyes to widen. 

"Ok, Zweig, let's go." The warden said, his men coming in to take Rainer’s arms and lead him out.

Kitty remained silent as the prisoner straightened up and walked to the cell's door. She spared a look at the bedside table covered by Rainer's hair. She put out the cigarette with her heel on the floor and, with one sharp breath, scattered the hair to reveal a newspaper bearing the headline _"Rainer Zweig executed today"_. She took a second look and froze. The scissors were nowhere in sight.

 She could hear Zweig singing while he was being led down the row by the warden and his armed entourage.

 Kitty ran out of the cell, and shouted "No! Stop him! Stop him!", but the group didn't slow down. From behind, she could see something shimmer in Zweig's hand. She knew what they were. She should have known from the beginning that something was wrong. Kitty picked up speed and stopped abruptly, taking in the sight in front of her.

 At the far end of the row awaited a group of reporters and photographers, revealing that Kitty was not the only one that Rainer had called to the execution. Standing amongst the crowd was a woman who looked to be in her late twenties. She could be described as an unusual beauty with her chestnut eyes full of warmth. Kitty found her smile strangely familiar, as if she had met her before, but she couldn't recall the name of the woman. The woman smiling at Zweig, her smile fading as the prisoner approached her and, lifting the open blades of the scissors, shouted “These are for you!”, before thrusting the blades in her throat.

* * *

A woman with no name sat up in bed and screamed until she could feel her voice weaken and break with the strain, her body shaking violent as she tried to get her breathing back to normal. She grabbed her throat and began checking herself for blood before sighing in relief. It was another nightmare for her and the second one that night.

 She looked around her room as if she had no idea where she was before her body relaxed, recognizing its surroundings. Outside, the wind was howling, moving the branches of the large trees to sway dangerously and giving the statues in the vast garden an ominous look. The woman hated those statues for they reminded her of demons guarding Hell's gates.

 “ _Then why...why do I feel drawn to them?”_ She thought to herself, leaving the bed and its sweaty sheets.

 From underneath the door, she could see the light flicker on, and then off, in the hall. She opened the door and stepped out into the corridor, her satin nightgown whispering against the floor as she ran down the spiral staircase. On her right, she eyed the door to large room, an empty study of some sort if she remembered correctly. She opened the door and picked up the ornate telephone on the desk with bated breath...Only to discover there was no line.

 The light in the hall flickered on and then off once more, prompting the woman to return to her room, putting the phone back onto its receiver and moving silently. As she approached the room's threshold, a tall figure slowly materialized before her, its face hidden by the darkness. Suddenly, the light returned and a man’s face appeared, something in his right hand shimmering with malicious intent.

 “These are for you!” He hissed and, with a smile on his lips, raised the pair of scissors and thrusted them at her throat.

* * *

Once again, the woman with no name sat up and screamed, clutching at her throat once more. “ _Another nightmare_ ?!” She thought, tears gathering in her eyes, “ _Why?! Why won’t they stop?!_ ”

 The nightgown covering her body was too big and the cheap cotton was itchy on her skin, contrasting the silk nightgown she was wearing in the nightmare. She heard footsteps outside her door as she got up and slowly approached it. The footsteps stopped as she stood in front of the door, moving the chair that was blocking it aside. She grasps the doorknob, stiffening as she felt it turn in her hand on its own. She whipped the door open to reveal a cloaked figure standing at the threshold. The woman screamed again as her eyes focus on something shimmer on the figure’s body, her own body tensing in preparation of reliving the horrors of her nightmares.

 The tall nun caressed the crucifix that hung around her neck, sighing to herself as she listened to the woman scream and began inwardly praying to God that this woman’s nightmares would end. It was a constant thing with this woman who had no name as, night after night; she would wake up with a blood-curling scream that could wake the dead, rambling about scissors and blood and a man whose name she could not remember. The woman continued to scream as the nun stepped into the room, trying to calm her.

 “Shhh, it's alright, child. I'm not going to hurt you.” The nun said softly, her voice trying to sooth the woman.

 Thankfully, the nun was just a step away from the young woman as her eyes rolled back. She fell into the nun’s waiting arms, her screams dying into the night as her vision faded to black, the only thing on her mind was the man with a dark smile and a pair of scissors in his hand, waiting for her to return to the nightmares where he ruled over her, his deep, baritone voice laughing in her ears.

 


	2. Chapter 1

 

 **London –  A flat around the corner on Montague Street, September 8** **th** **, 2005**

_Ping._

_Ping._

_Ping._

The annoying, persistent sound continued for at least ten minutes until a grunt came from the heap of dirty clothes on the sofa. A bony arm shot out of the heap and long fingers snatched the mobile from the coffe table and brought it under the bundle, the room becoming quiet once more as the ringing sound was dealt with.

An hour later, heavy steps resounded on the old stairs leading to the flat, the footsteps stopping at the open door. A disgruntled sigh followed and the footsteps resumed, the owner of said footsteps opening up the curtains to let light into the room which was followed by the window being opened to let fresh air waft into the space.

“How could you survive here? And when has been the last time you left this flat, by the way?”A scolding voice said, sighing again when there was no response.

The man checked the leftovers on the kitchen table, taking great care to not touch the mould growing out of the jars that had begun taking root near the spoiled food. Another sigh escaped the man’s lips as he threw the person on the couch a very unhappy look. The place was a mess, as usual, and was starting to smell like a dumpster.

“Sherlock, I’m talking to you...Would you make do me the favour of not behaving like a grumpy fifteen year old and answer me?” The man’s voice grew steadily louder as he approached the sofa, lifting the smelly clothes and reveal the body of an emaciated young man.

“Christ, Sherlock…Go and have a shower. We’ll talk later…” The older man took a disgusted step back and let the other sit up and stretch.

“It’s good to see you again, Lestrade…Is my dear brother so worried about me that he had to belittle himself so much to send his lackey to check on me?” The man named Sherlock sneered in a cool voice, his cat-like eyes narrowing as the light hit them.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade would have loved to erase that mocking smirk from his face with a well delivered fist, but he knew that it would satisfy the boy too much.Therefore, he decided to simply ignore the boy’s reply. Instead, he diverted the topic to what was more pressing at the moment.

“Shower first, Sherlock. Then we will talk about the case.” Lestrade told Sherlock, sitting down in one of the cleaner parts of the sofa.

He didn’t miss the interested sparkle in Sherlock’s eyes and smiled as he saw the boy literally sprint to the bathroom, only to slower his stride a few seconds later. Sherlock didn’t want to come off as too eager to hear the details of the case, but there was no fooling Lestrade. The only thing Sherlock loved more than a case was…well, nothing really.

“And make sure to use a good amount of soap, please!” Lestrade advised, the advice itself swallowed by the bathroom’s door closing with a loud noise.

While waiting for Sherlock, Lestrade decided to be brave and inspected his fridge, a decision he soon regretted. He went outside and entered the first Pret-a-Manger around the corner. There, he bought a selection of sandwiches and a few bottles of fresh juices, hoping to find at least some tea and coffee at the flat.

When he returned, he found Sherlock sitting on the sofa, this time clad in a fresh , and without a doubt really expensive, bathrobe. The DI threw him a chicken and bacon sandwich and sat down in front of the young man, the coffee table’s joints groaning with a complaint under his weight.

He waited for Sherlock to sniff at the food and take the first bite before taking a mouthful of his own tuna and cucumber baguette. For a few minutes, they ate in silence. Lestrade was the first to speak,“You need an housekeeper, Sherlock. Or at least a really accomodating and obliging flatmate.”

“I don’t need a flatmate” Sherlock responded in a curt voice.

“If it is because of Victor, I hate to repeat myself, but-” Lestrade stopped when he saw the defiant, yet tired look on Sherlock’s face.

“You came here for a reason, didn’t you? And it wasn’t to make sure that I was fed and clean or to complain about my flat’s state of tidiness, I’m sure.” Sherlock said before taking another bite of his sandwich.

“Do you remember when I said that if you finally allowed yourself to be treated for your addiction and stayed away from drugs for a year, I would let you help me? Unofficially, of course.” Lestrade asked slowly, watching the young man carefully.

He was sure Sherlock would suffer a whiplash as he lifted up his face from his sandwich so quickly that some pieces of chicken and bacon fell from his face... The DI fought back a grin full of satifaction at his reaction and savoured the moment. It wasn’t that often that someone could surprise the great Sherlock Holmes.

“If you’ve finished to bask into your moment of bliss…” Lestrade teased, watching as Sherlock put down his sandwich and leant his back on the sofa, his hands in a praying pose just under his chin.

Lestrade mimicked his relaxed attitude, finding a more comfortable position on the armchair. He smiled and said, “You want me to illustrate the case, don’t you? Well, I think you’re familiar with the latin expression “do ut des”. Tell me about that little errand that Mycroft entrusted you with and I will satisfy your curiosity.”

Sherlock let out a huffy breath. The case that Mycroft had bestowed upon his shoulders had been both intriguing, to say the least, and mystifying at the same time. He zoned out for a minute, thinking about what had happended three days before.

* * *

_Three days before_

**Chester Square, Belgravia, London - September 5th, 2005**

 

Chester was one of, if not the most, expensive address in Britain. Most of his residents were wealthy owners with a foreign connection and the woman Sherlock was searching for, Mrs. Norton, was no exception. Wife to a rich american lawyer, she spent her days hidden away in her white stuccoed, terraced flat while a sequence of equally affluent men and women fought each other for the chance to have a meeting with her.

Dressed as a delivery-man, Sherlock Holmes waited patiently at the door chewing on a pen to make himself seem more convincing. Unfortunately, Mrs. Norton’s assistant refused to let him in and Sherlock knew he had to try more drastic measures.

“One of my assignments is to receive and check her mail. There’s no need for you to see her and deliver this package to her personally.” Mrs. Norton’s assistant said with a slight huff to her voice, looking down at Sherlock as if he were just a pest that needed to be disposed of.

“But the sender asked for it in their request! It’s my first week on the job, ma’am, and I don’t want to lose it. Please…” Sherlock whined, making sure to sound as distressed as he could and giving her what most would call “puppy-dog eyes”.

Suddenly, a shadow appeared behind the woman and asked in a lithe voice, “Is there any problem, Louise?” The assistant turned and explained the situation to the newcomer. A second later, the door opened completely and a tall, dark-haired woman took a step forward.

“Well, I think he seems quite inoffensive, don’t you agree, Louise? Please come inside. What’s your name, boy?” She inquired, looking at him with an eyebrow raised.

Boy… Sherlock knew quite a lot about her just from his initial glance. She was just three years older than him, but she oozed such confidence and aplomb. He couldn’t deny that she looked gorgeous, dressed in an elegant and sheer chiffon kimono that left very little to the imagination. The kimono had a deep slip that started mid-thigh to show long and tapered legs and the long neckline that put on display the curves of her breasts. The crimson silk, adorned by the Baroque-inspired floral print, flattered her pale complexion, and her black hair was gathered up in a sophisticated chignon.

“A-Adam. T-That’s my name, ma’am!” Sherlock faked a stutter, still chewing the pen before lowered his gaze shyly.

“So, Adam, what is this package that you are so adamant to leave only into my hands?” The woman asked, her voice oozing sexual appeal and sultry promises.

Sherlock held out a small box wrapped in blue paper and offered her his pen and the register, “Y-Your signature, please, ma’am.” They were now inside in the hall with the door shut behind them, the assistant giving Sherlock a wary look while the young man waited patiently. Sherlock watched Mrs. Norton write down her name before he tutted his disapproval, “No, Ma’am… You signed your name wrong.”

The woman glared at him and asked, “What are you saying, boy? That I don’t know how to write my own name?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw the assistant entering one of the doors, probably to go alert the security. He knew he only had a short amount of time to get what he wanted out of the woman in front of him. Dropping his disguise, Sherlock looked at Mrs. Norton and watched her raise her eyebrow again in question.

“Maybe you just forgot your name…Ms. Adler.” Sherlock mused, her surprised look making him smirk as she quickly recovered from her shock.

“Intelligence, a preference to disguise himself… Mr. Holmes the younger, I presume?” She answered with a question of her own, his stunned silence welcomed by a sweet laugh, “Is Mycroft that desperate that he had his little brother come to find me?”

Sherlock ignored the reference to his brother, as he usually did, and replied, “Your holiday is over, Ms. Adler. It seems your country requires you.”

“Dr. Adler, please. I was a psychiatrist before MI6 recruited me. I spent five years helping a lot of people work thorough their problems before I discovered that I could help them in…Well, let’s just say...in a more _pleasurable_ way.” She finished with a suggestive wink.

“Well then…Your expertise is needed, Dr. Adler.” Sherlock said, ignoring the suggestive look she was giving him.

“And what about you, Mr. Holmes? Do you need my expertise, too?” She inquired, her gaze running down to his crotch and then back to his eyes, her lips pulled up to give him a smirk that held promises of pleasure.

He stared back at her before taking a step back. It was an eloquent answer and not one she received often, he was sure, if the look of surprise that flashed across her face was any indication.

“Well, it’s a pity, Mr. Holmes…I’m sure we would have had a good time together. Who knows? Maybe one day you will take me up on my offer.” Dr. Adler mused.

Sherlock got close, one of his arm extending to retrieve the pen and the register and, in doing so, getting a whiff of her expensive perfume. The enticing fragrance titillate his nostrils and made his mind wander to thoughts he had vowed to abstain from. He distanced himself swiftly and, without realizing it, he put the pen back in his mouth and started to chew on it.

“Do you want a cigarette?” Dr. Adler asked, opening one of the drawers from the nearby bureau and taking out a pack of cigarettes.

"No, thank you, Dr. Adler. I don’t smoke.” Sherlock lied, his eyes darting to the cigarette pack quickly before back to her.

“Irene, please. And don’t you start to lie to me, Mr Holmes. We are not so intimate as to start with the games...yet.” Irene said as she closed the drawer, “You use that pen like a cigarette. And you eyed the cigarette pack as it were a glass a water after a long walk in the desert.” Sherlock lowerd his gaze to the floor, disappointed at his own lack of control.

“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself…I saw the edge of a nicotine patch on your arm, too. The fact is, Mr. Holmes, that someone's either a smoker or a nonsmoker. There's no in-between. The trick is to find out which one you are and be that.”

“Thanks for the advice, Doctor. It’s been a pleasure” Sherlock expressed his gratitude and didn’t wait for her reply, running out as he heard the security approach them.

Irene Adler looked smug as she watched her bodyguards following him outside, murmuring to herself, “Oh, it’s been a pleasure indeed, Mr. Holmes.”

* * *

“Sherlock? Hey mate, are you ok?” Lestrade’s worried voice asked as it brought him back from his reverie.Sherlock blinked and got up, “Mycroft’s case? Boring as is everything concerning my brother. Now, your case, Mr. DI.”

Lestrade let out an exasperated sigh. One day, he would win a battle of wit with that insufferable git that was Sherlock Holmes… Someday, but not today, clearly.

“A dear friend of mine, Father Timothy, found a young woman wander outside his school which is just outside London. She was trying to get inside by climbing over the gates. She was frightened and almost hysterical. They brought her inside and tried to figure out who she was and where she came from, but it was all in vain. She didn’t say a word. It seems like she’s lost the ability to speak. She refused to eat and when she went to sleep, she had violent nightmares.” Lestrade began, resting his elbows on his knees.

Sherlock merely nodded to the information while Lestrade continued, “They called the police, but the officers just took her fingerprints and told my friend and the nuns that the best they could do was to put her description into their computers. You know they can’t do anything until someone reports her missing. My friend managed convince the nuns to let her stay at the school’s dorm for a few more days, but yesterday, the headmaster decided that they could not do anything for her and brought her to the hospital. There, they gave her a shot of something, some sedative I think. I don’t know what it was for. To help her relax or something… They said her vocal cords seem to be fine and that there’s no brain damage. They decided to keep her under observation for a few days and then send her to a psychiatric department elsewhere once they were finished. It’s an horrible place, Sherlock. She has a family, someone who is waiting for her at home, and she needs help to return back to them.”

Lestrade paused, waiting for a reaction from Sherlock, but the man seemed to have zoned out again. After a few minutes of waiting, Lestrade started to get impatient and thought that Sherlock didn’t care about the case at all. He started to get moving when Sherlock spoke.

“Aphasia. Or traumatic vocal impairment, if you prefer, it’s her disorder. Mostly caused by a stroke or some other brain disease. I don’t find this case of yours very interesting, Lestrade. I understand that you want be the good samaritan and help this woman, but I don’t see how it would useful for me to help you.” Sherlock sighed exasperatingly, looking up at the DI.

Lestrade get close to Sherlock and hissed, “I don’t care if you find this case intriguing or not. This girl… She doesn’t seem crazy. She looked terrified when I saw her. She saw something or experienced something that literally stole her voce. Timothy told me that everytime she went to bed, she blocked her door with a chair and that she woke up several time screaming, unable to tell anyone what is plaguing her dreams. She’s alone and afraid and needs someone to give her an helping hand. She’s not less important than the spies that slip away from your brother’s hands.”

The DI moved to the entrance door, “And don’t forget that if you find out who she is and help me bring her back to her family, I will allow you to be a consulting detective, as you like to call yourself. Take or leave, Sherlock… What do you say?”

Sherlock seemed to ponder on his options for a while, then got up, “Which hospital did they bring her to?”

Lestrade smiled brightly at him and Sherlock reprimanded him before he went to his bedroom to change into something more appropriate, “Don’t look at me like that…It’s going to be a colossal waste of my precious time. I’m already sure of that. I’m accepting only because I can’t stand you begging me to take this case.”

“Sure, Sherlock. If it makes you feel better…” Lestrade’s laugh followed and Sherlock couldn’t help but look smug. He was just a tiny step away from finally being a consulting detective.

* * *

**King’s College Hospital - General Neurology - September 8th, 2005**

An hour later, when Sherlock and Lestrade arrived at the hospital, they found out that there was someone paying a visit to the mysterious woman. Sherlock looked the man over and began making a mental note of his physical appearance. The man was of average height and fair haired, his eyes focused on the woman in the bed. He was sitting on one of the chair by the bed while the woman slept.

When they opened the door, the man turned and Lestrade recognised the man to be Dr. John Watson, the doctor who had performed the preliminary test on the woman’s vocal cords.

“Dr. Watson, what a pleasure meeting you again! How is our girl today?” Lestrade asked, smiling at the doctor with ease.

The younger man smiled back at the DI and replied, “We just gave her a mild sedative to help her sleep. She deserves some rest, the poor thing… Any news about her identity?”

At the DI’s negative answer in the form of silence, Dr. Watson’s attention shifted from Lestrade to the other man who was walking straight towards the little wardrobe in the left corner of the room. Lestrade answered the doctor’s obvious next question by telling him, “This is my…collaborator, Sherlock Holmes. He’s assisting me with the investigation.”

Sherlock didn’t pay attention to their exchange, his focus zeroed in on examining the woman’s clothes inside the wardrobe. On one of the top shelves, he found a single glove. Next to it, a small gold ring featuring two hands clasping a heart surrounded by a tiny crown. He then checked her blouse, her trousers and finally her trench coat, smelling the lining.

Behind him, the two men observed his actions in silence until Lestrade cleared his throat and inquired, “Found anything, Sherlock?”

The dark-haired man turned, an annoyed expression on his long face, “Obviously your friend didn’t think about preserving the evidences on her clothes, so he, or one of his colleagues decided to wash them. Thankfully they didn’t touch her coat-”

“And why were you smelling it?” The blond man asked, watching as Sherlock took a second to observe him.

“Her perfume. The top notes are citrus smelling, such as lemon, orange blossom, mandarin. The base is composed of sandalwood and musk while the heart brings out rose and pure jasmine, among the others. Sunflower by Elizabeth Arden, I would say. It is very necessary that a criminal expert should be able to distinguish a perfume from each other and cases have more than once within my own experience depended upon their prompt recognition.” Sherlock explained slowly, as if speaking to a child who did not understand how to read or write.

Dr. Watson eyed the newcomer with curiosity before asking Lestrade, “Your collaborator is a perfume’s expert?”

“Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.” Sherlock said while offering his hand to the doctor to shake, giving Lestrade no chance to speak.

“John Watson, nice to meet you, Mr Holmes.” Dr. Watson replied, shaking Sherlock’s hand firmly.

“Just Sherlock, please. Oh, and by the way…Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Dr. Watson’s hand fell immediately from Sherlock’s grasp, his eyes wide with surprise, “How do you-?”

Sherlock let out a chuckle and said, “It’s quite obvious you’re thinking about enlisting for military service, Dr. Watson. I will make a list of the several telltales that gave you away, not including the pamphlet you’re using as a bookmark on your book, but I think someone is waking up…”

When the other two men turned, a pair of worried chestnut eyes were fixing all of them. She regarded the two strangers warily before looking at Dr. Watson and relaxing slightly. If they were conversing with the good doctor that meant that they had to be good people, right? Her eyes landed on Lestrade and shone with recognition before they went to Sherlock for a moment.

“How are you, my dear?” Dr. Watson asked in a reassuring voice that seemed to restore some confidence to the young woman, who let out a shy smile.

“Very good…Now DI Lestrade here is back with a collague to ask some more questions, correct?” Dr. Watson asked as the the older man nodded and said, “Yes, that’s why we’re here-”

“This is a Claddagh ring.” Sherlock interrupted, holding up the ring he found earlier. “It’s a traditional Irish ring. I-I knew a girl who used to wear one…” His voice faltered for a moment, but no one seemed to notice it, “On the right hand, when the point of the heart toward the fingertips, the wearer is single. When the point of the heart toward the wrist, the wearer is in a relationship. On the left hand with the point of the heart toward the fingertips, the wearer is engaged. When the point of the heart toward the wrist, the wearer is married. How were you wearing it?”

The woman looked at the ring for a long moment before she looked up at Sherlock. With a hand, she pushed back the brown hair that was obscuring her view and then let out a frustrated puff, shaking her head.

“Of course, no one remembers how she wore it when she was found, am I correct?” Sherlock sneered, both Lestrade and Watson a bit ashamed at his reprimand.

Sherlock put the ring on the bedside table and moved to turn the woman’s hands so that he could inspect the palms, but she retracted them quickly.

“I need to see your hands…Lestrade, Doctor Watson, tell her to let me examine her hands!” Sherlock demanded, raising his voice and missing how the woman frowned at him. She turned to the bedside table,and opened a drawer, taking out a notebook and a pen. She wrote something down before she showed it to Sherlock.

“It says “You could have just asked…politely.” John read, chuckling with Lestrade as he joined in on the laughter.

“May I take a look at your hands, please?” Sherlock asked after scowling at the two men.

This time, the woman offered him her opened hands with a soft smile. He observed them painstakingly, his long fingers tracing the lines on the palms as if he were reading them before shifting his attention to the fingertips.

“Tiny cuts on your left hand’s fingertips…Do you recognise this kind of cuts, Dr. Watson?” Sherlock asked as the doctor approached themand took a closer look.

“Of course…I still have some scars on my hand from my first year…So, you’re a future colleague, aren’t you?” Dr. Watson asked the young woman, but what he received was an apologetic half-smile.

“Check your database for any female medical student who have been reported missing and you will find her identity.” Sherlock instructed Lestrade, moving away from the bed while Lestrade let out a frustrated curse and followed him, replying in a hushed tone, “It’s going to take days, Sherlock… And what if no one has reported her disappearence?”

“They’re going to discharge her tomorrow… If no one is going to come forward, they’re going to bring her to a psychiatric clinic for a week and then let her go God knows where.” D. Watson said, joining the men in their discussion, “There’s nothing wrong with her physically…She just can’t speak. I saw something similar happening to a friend of mine once. He was a paramedic and he was called to a house in Croydon where a mailman went mad and cut his entire family open with a hedge trimmer…Then, I don’t know why, maybe he heard a voice in his head or felt so bad about everything he had done, he cut off his own arms. Had to dial 999 with his nose.”

The woman was far enough to not hear the story, but noticed immediately the men’s distressed looks and watched them curiously, tilting her head to the side.

“My friend’s ambulance was the first to show up at the house. He took one look and passed out cold right there. He was a tough guy…He had served in Kosovo for six months. When he woke up, he had no idea who he was and didn’t recognise his own family. Then, one week after that, he woke up and his little daughter was sitting on his bed. She gave him a kiss, and said “I love you, Dad…” and…Well, he told me that in about two seconds, his whole life came flooding  back to him.”

“Are you saying that she just needs a kiss and everything will return as wonderful as before for her?” Sherlock asked sarcastically, ignoring the glares he got from Lestrade and Dr. Watson.

“No, of course not. I’m just saying that she needs time and peace. That way, she will remember who she is and her way back home. I’m sure that, as good as that clinic would be, they would not have the time nor the money to give her the help her she deserves.” Dr Watson concluded.

Lestrade, who had remained silent all that time, finally spoke and said, “I have an idea…Sherlock, you still have a spare room, don’t you?”

Sherlock took a step back from the DI, approaching the door, and stated firmly, “No, Lestrade. You asked me to help you find her identity, not to take an amnesiac in foster care!”

Lestrade followed the young man outside the room and murmured, “It’s just for a few days…Until we have some trace…”

“No. That’s my final answer, Lestrade.” Sherlock growled, turning his back to the DI to reach the elevator, but Lestrade halted his retreat by taking his arm.

“Then I will tell your brother that you’re not ready to work with Scotland Yard and be a consultant to the police” Lestrade told him, his voice stern to the point where Sherlock knew that he was not joking.

“This is blackmail, Lestrade…” Sherlock breathed out in slight surprise, “You’re a policeman. How could you?”

“Take or leave, Sherlock. Take the girl with you or leave forever your dreams to be a consulting detective”. Lestrade said, his ultimatum hanging in the air.

“You don’t even know if she will accept…” Sherlock tried to dispute, but Lestrade smiled confidently.

“You see… I can be very persuasive when I want.” Lestrade grinned as he turned to head back into the woman’s room, a displeased and disgruntled Sherlock following behind him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 2

Common people’s idiocy never ceased to amaze and annoy Sherlock Holmes. On his way back to his flat with the young woman with no name and no memory struggling to match his long strides with her short legs, he couldn’t stop to ponder how easily Lestrade, with the aid of Dr. Watson, had managed to convince three doctors, a few nurses and the chief medical officer, to let him, a former junkie with self-diagnosed sociopathic tendencies, take care of an amnesiac, aphasic young woman he had not seen until two hours before. It probably helped that the doctors ignored that Sherlock Holmes had left rehab just one year ago and that he had thrown out his former flatmate six months later. He stopped mid-stride and turned to watch where the woman was and found her tripping  over him.

"Pay attention, would you?!" He barked as she stared at him with those big brown eyes full of confusion and self-consciousness that he was sure would move someone as dull as Lestrade to extend a hurried excuse, but not him.

Notebook clutched to her chest, she fumbled around, reaching into her coat pockets for a pen. Then suddenly, she stopped, regarded him for a moment before delivering a firm kick to his left shin. Turning, she breezed past him, a satisfied smirk on her face.

“What the fuck!?” He exclaimed, hopping on his right foot trying to reach her.

He was just one step behind her, ready to place a hand on her shoulder to stop her when she halted and turned, showing him a sheet of paper ripped from the notebook.

“Just be kind, ok?” Her round calligraphy begged, Sherlock looking into her bright brown eyes that showed the same inquiry with the same amount of begging in them.

Sherlock Holmes took a deep breath, remembering how this case was just the final step that would lead him to fulfill his ambition. “ _Be patient…”_ He instructed himself and a chuckle escaped from his full lips. Yes, patience was really one of his best virtues, along with his well-known gentleness. The day that would actually happen would be the day the world froze over.

“Fine…But we could have taken a cab, instead of walking…” He grumbled, watching the young woman turn a page and show him what she had written before, “The DI gave you 200 pounds for food and clothes, not to waste them for something trivial as expensive cab rides!”

The young man tilted his head before whispering his fast deduction, “Parsimonious, frugal…Probably coming from a large family with at least other two siblings. Firm, so probaly she’s the oldest and used to iinstructing the younger children. Or…Maybe she has just one parent who was forced to use money sparingly to raise a child all on his or her own…”

His deduction was proved right, he thought smugly, when she stopped in front of a charity shop.

“No…Please don’t tell me that you're thinking of buying some strangers’ old clothes…” Sherlock groaned, his words going unheard as she opened the door and entered the shop.

It took her no more than fifteen minutes to find a childish-looking jumper, a pair of shapeless jeans and a vintage yellow sundress with big white flowers printed on it that Sherlock was sure she would not have any occasion to wear. In spite of it, she looked so happy with her purchase that he decided to take a picture of her when she wasn't looking. Well...when he thought she wasn't looking. Not even a split second later, she started to write on her notebook and showed it to him, “Why did you do that?”

He paid the shopkeeper and ushered the young woman outside, telling her, “It's for the blog that I run. I'm going to publish it and maybe one of my readers has seen you before…Now, please tell me that you have no intention to visit another Oxfam shop to buy your underwear…”

She blushed and even he couldn't help but appreciate the pink nuance covering her cheekbones before saying, “There's a Tesco not too far from my flat… It will take us no more than ten minutes by foot. I'm sure you could find there something… suitable”.

After a quick (and embarrassing, for both of them) visit to the supermarket, they finally arrived at Montague Street. Sherlock took out his keys and opened the front door. The woman tentatively followed him inside. He didn't seem to be ashamed by the messy state of the living room, so she decided to ignore it. One thing caught her attention, though, and that the human skull that was apparently being used as a paperweight on the enourmous desk that occupied most of the room.

Not knowing what to do, she sat down on the couch and looked around. Sherlock stared at her for a moment before he noticed something and walked to his desk, opening a drawer. He rummaged inside for a moment before taking out a pair of scissors. She stiffened as he approached her, her eyes glued to the shears before she closed them, holding her breath as he snipped off the tag from the cardigan she had bought before and decided to wear. The entire moment wasn’t lost on Sherlock, but he decided to file that information to be reviewed at a later time.

“Hungry?” His gruff question brought her back to reality. She shook her head and Sherlock exhaled, “Well, if you get hungry, the fridge is over there. Good luck finding something edible. I don't need to eat frequently, since I noticed long ago how the digestion negatively affects my mental prowess.”

She blinked, waiting for something… An offer to buy her some food, probably. A voice that sounded too similar to his mother's urged him to act like the gentleman she had raised him to be. Sherlock sighed and said, “I will go out and buy something later, if you want.”

A shy smile was his only response and he took it as a sign to continue the tour of the flat. He left the living room, promoting her to get up and follow him.

“Your bedroom is back here.” He said, gesturing to the room on his left, “Right in front of mine.”

He watched her enter the room, her eyes shining with curiosity. There were some framed photographs hanging on the wall. One specific one caught her attention and she looked at it closer. There was a handsome blond man hugging a slightly shorter dark-haired woman from behind. They were both smiling and looked so much in love. She turned to give Sherlock a questioning look, wanting to know more about the photograph,  but Sherlock ignored it and said, “Spare linen and towels are in the closet… I'm sure you still remember how to prepare a bed, don't you?”

He pointed to the bare mattress on the bed. She sat down on the chair on the bed’s right before she suddenly seemed to remember something and sprinted back to the living room. When she came back, she passed him a piece of paper, blushing as she watched him read, “You forgot to buy some sleepwear, so you’ll need to lend your t-shirt...” Well, the previous room’s occupant left some old t-shirts in the dresser’s bottom drawer. Feel free to use them as you please...I'm sure it's not the first time a woman has worn them.” His tone had grown dry by the end of the statement and the young woman wondered why his former flatmate had left.

“Now if you excuse me, I have to work on a case…Your case.” He left abruptly and stopped only when he heard the door closing hurriedly behind him, followed by the sound of a chair being moved until it blocked the door.

* * *

Three hours later, Sherlock had already uploaded his guest's photo to his blog and was working on updating his side blog about ashes when a scream pierced the silence of the London’s night. After a moment of disorientation, he immediately rushed to the guest's room. The woman screamed even louder as he threw himself against the blocked door. When he finally managed to get the chair out of the way and bursted into the room, she was grabbing her throat, looking frightened to death. He glanced around the room, about to make sure that nobody was attacking her, even though he knew there was no one else in the flat. She started to sob and, out of nowhere, a long lost memory came back to him. It was during the first nights after his dog’s death. His father would come into his room and would hug him until he fell asleep, just to be sure that he would sleep peacefully with no nightmares disturbing his nights. Sherlock tentatively approached her and, at first, she recoiled as he tried to touch her bare arm. Slowly, he came closer and pulled her into his arms, gently rocking her as she curled up on his lap, shaking violently.

“It's just me…No one is going to hurt you.” Sherlock murmured softly. Oh, what would Mycroft or even Victor would say if they could see him now, comforting a stranger…

Without knowing it, he started to caress her hair, the soothing motion prompting her to lower her eyelids. He continued until her breathing pattern grew calmer. Picking her up, he laid her back down on the bed and tucked her in. He slowly stood up, careful not to disturb her when he saw that she was falling back asleep. Then, as the concerned man that he didn't want to be, he righted the chair and sat down, guarding her sleep.

* * *

The next morning, Lestrade decided to visit Sherlock and the woman, bringing with him some coffee and almond croissants. Knowing Sherlock, he feared that the young man would starve the poor girl to death. However, when he arrived at the flat, opening the door using the key that Sherlock’s brother had given him for emergencies, he was astonished by the scene that welcomed him. The kitchen table was littered with food and was covered with buttered toasts, scrambled eggs, fried mushrooms, sausages, grilled tomatoes…A real english breakfast.

“Would you please close your mouth? Or at least stop drooling on my carpet…”Sherlock’s booming voice interrupted his reverie.

The DI turned and watched as the young woman, wearing an apron, put a teapot on the table before looking at Sherlock, muttering, “Please, tell me you’re not taking advantage of her by making her cook for you…”

Sherlock smirked at Lestrade’s indignant voice and replied, “Of course! She has to earn the room and board, doesn’t she?”

The woman smiled kindly as she wrote on her notebook before she passed it to Lestrade, “I woke him up with my nightmares early this morning…It was the least I could do. Plus, he went out this morning at five o’clock just to buy all this food…”

The DI turned to look at Sherlock so fast that the other two feared he would suffer a whiplash, “You went out before dawn? To buy eggs and bread?”

A “ping” came from Lestrade’s mobile and stole the chance for Sherlock to retort.

“Oh, and thank you very much for putting my number on your blog as a contact for information. I think every lunatic and maniac in London has called or sent me a text. Take this one, for example, he’s saying that she’s his long lost love and that they have matching snake tattoos over their left arm.” Lestrade said, rolling his eyes.

It was then that they heard someone knocking. Sherlock strolled to the door and opened it to a distinguished-looking gentleman. He ran a hand through his grey hair before introducing himself, “Professor Richard Bach.”

Sherlock looked him up and down, before stating, “Sorry, but I don’t need anything.”

He had begun closing the door on the older man’s face when the older gentleman stopped him and said, “Mr. Holmes, let me explain. I read the post on your blog about that woman. I’m here to help you.”

 


	4. Chapter 3

 

“Really? And how?” Lestrade asked, appearing behind Sherlock, “Perhaps you know who she is, Mr…?”

“Bach. And it’s professor, please. To answer your question, no, I don’t know this gracious lady.” The old man said, nodding at the woman, “Yesterday, I read your entry on your blog, Mr Holmes, about this poor aphasic woman. I see cases like this all the time. A person experiences something traumatic, something they desire to erase from their memory with all their heart. The trouble is that they end up erasing everything else along with it.”

The woman with no name looked at Lestrade and Sherlock as they let the stranger come in. She was wary about this gentleman and her eyes met Sherlock’s. He glanced at the professor and then back at her. She gave him a small smile to reassure him that she would be alright.

“Are you a doctor?” Lestrade asked, watching the professor shake his head and reply, “Not exactly. I’m a hypnotist.”

Sherlock didn’t waste any time going back to the door and opening it, “I believe you can find your way back, Professor Bach. Goodbye.”

Lestrade watched as the old man ignored Sherlock’s rude attempt to throw him out and sat down on the sofa. The young woman followed his example and sat down beside him, regarding the old man curiously. She didn’t recoil as he took her hand and started to gently stroke it.

“It’s simply a matter of regressing the young lady back to a happier time and then asking her who she is.” Professor Bach told the trio calmly, giving the woman a smile that was returned with a small smile of her own.

“I know how hypnosis work.” Sherlock spat back, narrowing his eyes at the professor.

Lestrade decided it was time to calm down him down, murmuring softly, “I say, let him try, Sherlock. What do we have to lose? The worst that could happen would be that he would just make a fool of himself.”

The younger man stared at the couple sitting on his sofa as their eyes locked. Professor Bach’s low and mellifluous voice whispered softly to the woman, never stopping his gentle caress on her hand, “Your hand is very light, my dear. So light, in fact, that I’m sureif I were to let it go, it would just float upward on its own.”

As he let go of her hand, it slowly started to rise. Bach smiled, not even trying to hide his satisfaction as he continued, “Now I want you to continue to relax and tell yourself that you’re going deeper and deeper into a state of hypnosis…”

Lestrade watched transfixed as the woman’s eyelids started to flutter and her shoulders slumped gradually. However, Sherlock’s intense stare seemed to be trying to burn holes on the old man’s head.

“That’s it… Very nice… Now let’s go back. Tell me, dear, what has happened to-” Professor Bach began softly, his statement getting cut off as suddenly, the woman bolted upright and screamed, “Somebody help me!”

She went silent soon after that and she started to tremble, her chestnut eyes wide and on the verge of tears. Lestrade instantly was at her side, looking at the professor with questioning eyes.

“Is she still under…?” Lestrade asked, as he knelt beside the woman while caressing her shoulder as the old man shook his head.

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, but was rewarded by a smug smirk by the old man, “At least now we know that she can speak. How do you feel, my dear?”

She smiled at him fondly and Professor Bach patted her hand gently, “I would say she feels better.“Splendid. Brilliant.”

Bach approached Sherlock, handing him a card, “If you like, you can come by my shop this afternoon and we can try again. We'll need several hours and I think my place would be-”

Sherlock eyed the card that read **“Bach Antiques. 65 Eaton Terrace, London”** before saying in a deadpanned voice, “She spoke. Wow, I'm thrilled. So thanks, but no thanks.”

The card was still mid-air between the two men when the woman snatched it away from Sherlock’s fingers. She gave him a look and he returned it, the two of them having a discussion with their eyes before Professor Bach chuckled and said, “I think the lovely lady here disagrees with you, Mr Holmes.”

She ran to the desk and wrote something on the card’s backside. She showed it to Professor Bach, who read it aloud, “Is it three o’clock fine for you, sir?”

The old man smiled back at her, “It's perfect. See you later then, my dear. Mr. Holmes, goodbye. It's been a pleasure.”

Professor Bach offered him his hand, but Sherlock ignored it. The professor let out an amused chuckle, as he opened the door and went out. Lestrade went to the window to watch him stroll away and muttered, “Wow.”

“Yes, wow…” Sherlock huffed in a sarcastic tone that made the DI turn and say, “So what? Jealous that someone else stole the spotlight? Or that he achieved more in five minutes than you did in half a day?”

Sherlock shrugged and flopped down on the sofa. Lestrade ignored his antics and moved closer to the woman, asking softly, “Are you sure? Do you really want to try again?”

She nodded, a determined look in her eyes. Lestrade chucked and said, “Well then, I think I can accompany you-”

"Don't be ridiculous, Lestrade. There's no need to pester us further with your presence. I will go with her, if only to witness that old lunatic’s failure.” Sherlock grumbled, his tone of voice expressing just how displeased he was with the entire situation.

The young woman stared at him, looking disappointed and cross with his choice of words. In that moment, Sherlock decided that he didn't like that look on her… Not one bit.

* * *

They arrived at the shop five minutes past three. Sherlock stepped in, looking condescendingly at the furnitures and the various objects in the antique store. He easily spotted more than a few imitations that the professor would surely pass off as originals and gave the older man a pointed look that Bach easily ignored, choosing instead to focus his attention onto the woman.

“Don’t you look lovely this morning, my dear? Please, follow me into my office.” He instructed as he turned the sign on the shop’s door over to read “closed” before locking the door.

The woman started to follow him but stopped as she saw Sherlock remaining still. A pointed look was all that took to make him move, albeit reluctantly, letting out a huff like a rambunctious child. The office was quite large, but cozy at the same time. Bach gestured for the woman to take a seat on one of the chairs at the table at the center of the room and sat down in front on her. With a wave of his hand, the antique dealer invited Sherlock to sit on a small settee at his left, but he disregarded his invitation.

“No need to get too comfortable, Professor. It’s going to be a very quick, and disappointing experiment, I reckon.” Sherlock told the professor with a sneer in his voice, not comfortable with the man at all.

Bach answered at his rude words with a confident smile that rapidly fell from his lips as from upstairs came the sound of a game show, “Sorry, that would be my son. He’s supposed to be studying for his doctorate…Let me go upstairs to tell him to turn it off.”

Sherlock took advantage of his absence to go near the woman and place a hand on her shoulder, murmuring in her ear, “It’s not too late… I could just pick the lock on the shop’s door and go away. This is just a waste of my time and…”

His attempt was cut short by the old man’s return, “I apologize for Jamie’s behaviour…”

He turned to the woman and smiled, saying, ”I thought that today, since this is our first real session, we would just go for an hour or so. Don’t want you to exert yourself too much, my dear.”

She nodded and her gaze became slightly apprehensive as she watched Bach light a candle and put it on the center of the table, “Now, as soon as you’re comfortable, I want you to take a look at the candle in front of you.”

As instructed, she focused her stare on it. Sherlock kept an eye on her and on Bach, still not fully comfortable with the situation. If the need be, he’d pull her away from the “good” professor and take her home...Blinking, Sherlock shook his head slightly. He’d be taking her to _his_ home. She did _not_ live with him on a permanent basis. Realizing that his thoughts were getting the best of him, Sherlock turned his focus back to the present, watching quietly.

“That’s it. Keep staring at it… Just let yourself relax… You may even feel your eyes start to close…” Bach instructed and, true to his words, her eyelids started to flutter, lowering themselves slowly, “That’s it. I want you to picture yourself walking down a flight of stairs. With each step, you will realx still futher. As you go down, I want you to tell yourself “I am going deeper into a state of hypnosis” over and over...”

Sherlock stifled a bored yawn, earning him an annoyed glare from Bach before the man continued, “Now yesterday, you became a bit too excited when we did this. Today, I want you to distance yourself from the events you’re watching, as if you’re only a witness, not an actual participant. Understand?”

She nodded promptly, making Bach grinned and say, “And darling...If you see any relics or, I don’t know, any nice artistic pieces, feel free to mention that too…”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Sherlock uttered in an exasperated tone.

Bach silenced him swiftly, “Shhh! Now, my dear, at the bottom of the stairs, I want you to picture a door. This door is very important. Just beyond it lies whatever time or place from your life you wish to visit. So from now on, whenever I say “The door has opened”, you will immediately relax into a comfortable hypnotic state. Do you understand?”

Her voice didn’t waver when she answered back, “Yes.”

“Alright, then. The door has opened.” Bach's voice grew softer, yet it sounded so distant to her ears, “I want you to go visit a very happy, relaxed time… Perhaps the happiest day of your entire life. The door has opened, dear. What was the happiest-”

The woman interrupted him, “The day when we first met.”

“Distance yourself.” Bach instructed and leant back on his chair, reminding the woman of his initial instruction.

“The day… Rainer and Margareth first met.”

“Margareth? Margareth who?” Sherlock interjected, instantly intrigued by what the woman was saying.

Bach started to reprimand him, “Mr Holmes, please...”

However, the young woman promptly answered the question nonetheless, “Zweig.”

Bach let out a cough and poured himself a glass of water, “Right. Let’s go back to the day Rainer and Margareth first met. When did it happen? Two years ago? Three years? Six months?”

The woman didn’t miss a beat, “It was 1946.”

At that statement, Sherlock took a step back, an uneasy feeling growing in his stomach, “I think I’ve heard enough.”

Professor Bach glared at the younger man, “Mr. Holmes, I must ask you to refrain from taking during the session.”

Sherlock moved next to the young woman, “She just told us that she met a man named Rainer, in 1946. I say the session is over. Wake her up or I will do it.”

Bach took a deep breath before speaking again, “On occasion, hypnosis can sometimes take us into our past lives, as well as our past.”

Sherlock scoffed at the old man’s explanation, “And you expect me to believe this stupid theory? I thought you were eccentric, but now I’m compelled to revise my opinion of you. You’re really insane…”

Sherlock put a hand on the woman’s shoulder, ready to wake her up, but Bach’s next words stopped him, “May I remind you, Mr Holmes, that two days ago this young lady wasn’t even speaking?”

The woman’s soft voice interrupted their arguing again, “Tchaikovsky was on the program that night…The Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-flat minor.”

The men stopped, both waiting for her to continue and she did not disappoint, Sherlock relunctantly sitting down and ignoring Bach’s satisfied snigger, “It was winter… The winter of the 1946…”

“Rainer was guest conductor for the London Simphony Orchestra, his first time back on a podium in Europe after his escape from Germany in 1942. The concert hall was full and it was no surprise to anyone. Rainer Zweig was one of the most iconic conductors of all time and people would not lose the opportunity to see him on the podium. His technique was highly controlled with no unnecessary movement contemplated but the occasional brushing a stray lock of dark hair from his forehead. Yet it seemed like a raw energy was flowing out of him, permeating the members of his orchestra and their instruments, elevating their performances to a passionate perfection. They were all terrified of him. No one wanted to disappoint the genius in his element.” The woman continued, her voice sounding as if she were reading from a novel.

She took a pause and a faint smile appeared on her thin lips, “Everyone, but not Margareth. She was the soloist. She played her piano with great focus and intensity, but every now and then, Rainer would caught her winking at him before smirking playfully. Once he almost lost his baton…”

The woman laughed freely and it was at that moment, Sherlock felt compelled to uncover her mystery. Not because of Lestrade’s promise, not because she was a puzzle he wanted to solve, but only because she deserved to be happy as she looked now, lost in reminescence of something he couldn’t believe was real. He was filled with the sudden longing to help her, not because of the retribution, but just out of compassion. That thought scared him, but he shut it down in his Mind Palace’s basement, intending to erase it later, as he continued to listen to the woman’s gentle voice.

"For their first date, they went dancing. He was a bit shy on the dancefloor, the opposite of how he was on a podium. He remained stiff, not knowing where to put his hands while they were slow-dancing. Margaret simply smiled at him and put his hands on her slim waist. Rainer decided that he couldn't bear to not touch her for the rest of his life. There was only one problem: he was to stay in London for three weeks. He wasn't supposed to fall in love.”

She paused before a shy smile appeared on her thin lips, “That night, he decided to accompany her home and tell her that they couldn’t see each other anymore… At least, not outside the concert hall. His resolve started to quiver as they strolled near Victoria park. She took him by the arm and leaned her head on his shoulder as they walked in the misty night. When they arrived at her flat and she remained there, waiting expectantly for him to say something, he made the mistake to look into her bright eyes. In a second, all the words he had thought of flew away, lost forever in the cold night. He bent down, both fearing and hoping that she would take a step back. She didn’t. She met him halfway, savouring the moment when his lips touched hers. His thin moustache tickled her skin, but she refrain to let him know. She didn’t want to ruin that perfect moment. When the kiss ended too soon, she would tell him later, Rainer couldn’t help but let out a shaky breath. He couldn’t leave London without her. It took him three more dates to pluck up the courage and ask her to follow him back to Los Angeles. She asked him a few days to think about it. Those were the longest days of his life and when she finally said yes, he finally understood that his life was now complete.”

The young woman let out a distressed sigh, “They were so in love… Life seemed to be full of happiness for them… And then…Oh, they didn’t deserve it...”

Out of nowhere, she started to sob violently, breathing out so heavily that Sherlock feared she would suffocate. She was gasping for air, her body shaking with how strong the sobs were coming out of her body. Sherlock’s eyes landed on Bach and he let out a snarl.

“Wake her up, now!” He ordered and Bach acquiesced quickly.

“Three… Two… One…” He snapped his fingers and finally she blinked herself awake.

Both Sherlock and the professor stared at her expectantly. The old man offered her an handkerchief and she took it, drying the tears on her cheekbones.

“Well, it is not as uncommon as one might think. Just last month, one old collague of mine told me that-” Bach’s statement was cut off abruptly when a soft voice asked, “May I have a glass of water… Please?”

The two men turned to look at her, startled by her request. Bach recovered quickly and said, “You have found your tongue, my dear. It’s wonderful, isn’t it, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock ignored Bach’s cheerful question and focused on the woman, “What’s your name?”

She shook her head before looking down at her hands, “I- I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

Meanwhile, the older man poured her a glass of water and she drank it all down at once. Sherlock waiting until she had finished drinking before continuing his line of questioning.

“Do you remember anything at all?”Sherlock insisted.

She started to speak before pausing and clutching her throat for a moment. After clearing it, she spoke in a thin voice, “No… I’m sorry.”

“What about those people you were taking about? Do you remember where you heard about them, or where you read their story?”

She cleared her throat once again, pouring herself another glass of water, “I’m sorry… But it’s all so confused in my head... “

Sherlock got up and started to walk back and forth, his hands under his chin, “Rainer Zweig was probably the most famous musical director of the ‘40s. He killed his wife, Margaret in 1948, and was bound to be executed two years later.”

“What- what happened to him?” The woman asked in a hushed tone, leaning forward towards Sherlock.

This time it was Bach’s answering her question, “He killed himself, in the same way he had killed his wife. He stabbed himself in the throat with a pair of scissors while he was being led down the row to his execution.”

The young woman shook her head, confused, “But… I saw them. They were so in love…”

“Well, those are the people that usually kill each other… Try to focus and remeber how you came to know about them.” Sherlock instructed her, but Bach interrupted him.

“I was getting clarity that goes far beyond what one would pick up from simply reading something on a book…” Bach glared, looking at Sherlock.

“I don’t believe she was there.” Sherlock replied, frowning at the professor.

“It doens’t matter whether or not you believe anything, Mr Holmes. For whatever reason, these events are consuming this lovely woman here. The sooner we work through them, the sooner she will get her memory back.” Bach argued, leaning back in his chair to look at the man smugly.

Sherlock eyed the woman for a moment, then put a hand on her wrist. Her pulse was steady and she looked at him curiosly. Ignoring how her gaze made him feel warm inside, he asked, “You look tired…Do you want to return to the flat and lie down for a while?”

His sudden kindness startled her and she took a moment to gaze into his eyes before nodding, “Yes, I think I need to rest.”

She turned to Mr. Bach and shook his hand, “Thank you so much, Mr. Bach. Thank you for giving me back my voice!”

The old man smiled at her fondly, “It’s been a pleasure, dear… Let’s see, tomorrow I have a previous commitment, but I think the next day I will be free. How is two o’clock sound?”

“We’ll let you know. Come on, I don’t want you to exert yourself…” Sherlock interjected as he helped the woman to get up and waited for her to set out for the shop’s door.

“Mr Bach…” he said with a nod of his head before taking his leave and following the woman outside.

* * *

“I’m not tired, you know…” She told him as he reached her.

She didn’t say anything more, waiting for him to speak, but he didn't, so she asked, “You wanted to go away. Why?”

“I don’t trust that man.” Sherlock replied shortly, looking ahead as the two began walking back to the flat.

“Really?” She smirked at him, blinking he stopped and stared at her, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not used to your voice. It’s like one day you wake up and your dog is talking to you.” He told her bluntly, watching as she blinked at him, unsure of how to reply.

“I mean...for the last two days you’ve been so quiet. Unless when you were screaming in the dead of the night…” He stopped and rolled his eyes at himself. He was babbling…Something he never did.

“Anyway… I think we need a second opinion.” He finished as started to walk again, watching as she quickened her steps to match his stride and asked, “Do you have someone specific in mind?”

“I know a doctor… Well, she used to be a psychiatrist, but now… Let’s just say she decided to pursue a new career.” Sherlock said vaguely, prompting a curious look from the woman beside him.

“And do you trust her?” She inquired, the curiosity now transferring from a look to the questioning tone in her voice.

“No. But I don’t trust Mr Bach more.” Sherlock replied shortly, the questions starting to grate on his nerves.

“Why? He seems a kind old man, willing to help me without having anything in return…” The woman said softly, her voice holding a confusing tone to it.

“Oh, come on! How could you be such a fool? Who acts so selflessly? No, he’s hiding something. I deduced it the first time I saw him…” Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes at how trusting the woman was.

The young woman stopped, prompting Sherlock to do the same and groan, “What now?”

“Nothing… You’re just so skeptical, and distrustful…” She murmured softly, looking at him with wide eyes.

“And you’re too naive and gullible!” He spat back, regretting his choice of words as soon as his eyes locked on hers.

Her eyes were clouded with hurt and he felt a heavy void where he was supposed to have his heart swell with regret. She broke the gaze first and continued the walk to the flat. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek before following. They remained silent until they reached the flat, the woman waiting patiently for Sherlock to unlock the door. He was taking out his keys when he noticed a new scrape on the lock.

“Wait here…” He ordered and opened the door, heading into the flat.

She did as he said…For a second before she followed him inside. The sight before her eyes surprised her. A beautiful, dark-haired and very naked woman was sitting on the sofa, her magnetic stare fixed on Sherlock.

 

 


	5. Chapter 4

Irene Adler’s burgundy lips opened in a lascivious smile as her eyes caressed the form of the other two people in the room. The woman with no name shared a look with Sherlock as the two looked at the each other. Irene loved to make an entrance and this was one that she would remember for a while. The woman with no name and Sherlock had a conversation between the two of them with their eyes before Irene cleared her throat, regaining their attention.

“I thought to pay you a visit, Mr. Holmes...To give you the chance to finish what we’ve started…But I see you’re not alone. Is that why you refused me? Well, if she wants to participate, I don’t mind…” Irene paused and winked at the other woman, missing the glare she got from Sherlock, but relishing in the blush that painted the other woman’s cheeks.

 “No, not at all…” Irene trailed off as she stood up and headed for Sherlock’s bedroom, her body oozing sex appeal as she went.

 “Do-Do you know that woman?” The brunette asked incredulously, looking up at Sherlock in surprise.

“Of course… I was talking about her earlier." Sherlock answered in a matter-of-fact tone, surprised at how unfazed he was that Irene was naked on his couch.

Speaking of Irene, her voice interrupted them by calling out, “If you’re done with your bickering, my invitation is still valid…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and replied, “Dr. Adler, we don’t have time for your antics. Please join us, we need you for a consultation.”

When she didn’t answer, he decided to add, “And please, come back with your clothes on!”

Two minutes later, Irene was back in the living room, dressed in an expensive dark-green couture dress, sitting down on the sofa. The younger woman decided that it was better to let Sherlock tell her what had happened to her. After all, she felt a bit intimidated by the over-confident and alluring woman. She waited in silence as Sherlock told her story quickly, focusing on the important details and skipping the boring parts.

“So now you want me to validate your opinion that Professor Bach is nothing but a charlatan and that this pretty lady here is just overcredulous, don’t you? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, young Holmes, but I believe that was she experienced earlier is true.” Irene concluded, her hands placed on her lap as she gave the brunette a smile.

Sherlock scoffed at her and exclaimed, “Come on! Am I the only one with a still functioning brain in this room?!”

Irene Adler smirked at him and said calmly, “Calm down, young Holmes. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt in your philosophy”. Try not to be dull and try to open your mind, for once. You will be surprised at what you might learn…Or do you really believe that logic can explain everything, Mr. Holmes?”

“It’s not about what I believe, it’s about whether or not something is true or false. It’s about proof. From my experience, people lie, all the time. Proof doesn’t, not once.” Sherlock retorted, glaring at the woman in his seat.

That remark seemed to arouse enthusiasm in Dr. Adler. She sat up and her entire demeanor shifted from the dominatrix personality she had when Sherlock and his flatmate walked in to the psychiatrist that she was well known for. The woman with no name’s eyes widened slightly at how easy it was for Irene to shift personalities.  

“Oh, do you want to talk about experience? Let me tell you a story, then.” Irene said as she turned to the other woman and smiled at her, the woman with no name looking shyly, but curiously, at her, prompting her to continue.

“Once, I had this patient with a severe case of claustrophobia. After a few sessions, I deduced that she had some kind of childhood trauma, but she was adamant that nothing had happened to her when she was a child. She was in denial, of course, but I couldn’t force her hand. So, I convinced her to try hypnosis, and through that method, I found out that when she was five, she had been molested by her uncle in a closet. After that, we continued therapy for a few months, but nothing changed. She was still so claustrophobic that even a bus ride would terrorize her.” Irene said, keeping her eyes on the brunette woman.

“Dr Adler…” Sherlock tried to interrupt her, but failed as Irene looked at him and said,  “Irene, please… And let me finish or I will be compelled to punish you, later… But I have a fair suspicion that you would like it, wouldn’t you?”

The brunette woman felt a pang of something so strangely similar to jealousy hit her, watching Irene flirting with Sherlock, that she decided to intervene by asking, “So, what happened next?”

Irene looked at her curiosly and decided to continue, ”I decided to regress her again, to go back even further. This time, when I asked her what year it was, she said 1832…”

The young woman continued to listen, mesmerized as Irene explained, “I couldn’t believe it, but then she started to tell me how about her father was an undertaker and how her older brother liked to lock her up in the coffin. One day he forgot her locked there for two hours…”

Sherlock started to shook his head, but Dr Adler ignored him and stated, “Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn’t. All I know is that after that session, she wasn’t claustrophobic anymore.”

She turned to the other woman, straing at her intensely, “Do you believe what you saw was real?”

“It seemed real, yes.” The brunette answered honestly, her voice holding no hint of a lie in it.

“Then I would say continue with the hypnosis sessions. My theory is that sometimes, a traumatic event or experience in this life can take us back to a traumatic event or experience in the last one. Resolve the old one and maybe you will also find out who you are. After all, many philosophers believe that it takes skill to live life. As with everything else, it takes practice to get good at it. You take what you learned from this life and apply it to the next one.” Irene told the brunette, watching her eyes shift from honesty to rebellion.

“But what good is learning anything if you’re going to be with different people each time?” The brunette argued back.

Irene shook her head, patronizingly and sighed, “Oh, sweetie…Who said that you’re with different people each time? What if you keep meeting the same person over and over again? What if the man you loved in a past life is the same man you’ll love in this life who just so happens to live under a different name such as yourself?”

Her observation was met with an amazed silence coming from the other woman and Sherlock’s ill-concealed disbelief. Irene wasn’t surprised. From what she had experienced with the former client, she had changed her thoughts on reincarnation and life after death. She was so sure that reincarnation was just a figment of the imagination, much like how Sherlock was thinking the same thing now. But once a person experiences what she had with her former patient...it could change a person’s views.

Irene got up and approached Sherlock, musing “Oh, don’t look so disappointed… After all, I offered you sex and you showed me that you were more interested into solving this mystery than into having fun with me. I should be the one disappointed, don’t you think?”

She took her black coat from the coat rack and put it on, “Now if you excuse me, I have a plane to catch. They say that Karachi is wonderful this time of the year… Who knows? Maybe someday we could spend a weekend there. What do you say, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock smirked at her, “Bon voyage, Dr. Adler.”

Irene gave them both a sultry smile and purred, “Bis bald, Mr. Holmes. And good luck to you, Miss.”

They watched her exit and heard another voice in the hall as someone else almost tripped over her, “Excuse me!”

A minute later, Dr. John Watson appeared on the threshold, “I hope I’m not disturbing, but I just wanted to know how everything going for you two…”

“Oh, hello Dr. Watson! I’m so happy to see you!” The woman said with a bright smile as she approached him.

The doctor took a step back, dumbfound, “You- You are talking!”

“Amazing deduction, Dr. Watson…” Sherlock commented, the woman glaring at him before returning her attention on the other man.

“Yes. Thankfully, I recovered my voice… But I still can’t remember a thing…” The woman sighed softly, her shoulders dropping slightly.

John placed a hand on her shoulder in a encouraging gesture, “Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time… May I confess something to you? I really like the sound your voice.”

Sherlock’s voice came from the other side of the room, holding a hint of envy that no one else caught, “Do you think is it proper to flirt with one of your former patients? Besides, it’s cruel to give her false hope, seeing that you’re leaving tomorrow for your boot camp…”

John halted his soothing motions and stared at Sherlock in awe, “Amazing… I don’t even want to know how you did it, you’re just… Wow!”

Pleased by the doctor’s praise, Sherlock approached him and deduced, “So, I see you chose Afghanistan… I can’t say that I approve your choice, because I’m convinced any war is a mistake, but I wish you well, Dr. Watson.”

With a nod, he offered him his hand, and John shook it tightly, saying, “Thank you, Mr. Holmes… Hey, what do you say if I invite you both to dinner? It’s my last evening in London and I want to celebrate.”

“Are you sure? I mean, you probably want to spend your last evening here with your family or with your friends…” The young woman argued, but John dismissed her suggestion with a tired gesture.

“The only family I have left is my sister and she’s currently…otherwise occupied. And my friends…Well, most of them are working at the hospital. So, what do you fancy for dinner? Chinese, Italian, or do you prefer a pint at the pub?” John asked the two, smiling kindly at them.

Sherlock took his leather jacket from the hanger and the young woman imitated him, “I know a fantastic fish shop just off the Marylebone Road. The owner always gives me extra portions.”

“A friend of yours, I see…” John mused with a questioning tone at the end of his statement.

Sherlock was quick to reply, “Not at all. I just helped him fixing some shelves, before I entered…” He stopped himself, and quickly changed subject, “Let’s go before the kitchen close”

They were just arriving at the restaurant when John received a call from his collagues, who had organised a farewell party for him. After the woman and Sherlock reassured him that there was no problem, he left them with a fond farewell. Ten minutes later, they were waiting at the table for their order when the young woman stared at Sherlock, like she was trying to build the courage to ask him soemthing. Finally, she sighed and said, “So… Deduce me.”

Sherlock raised his eyes from his beer glass to look at the woman, “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, you heard me well enough.” The young woman chuckled, “At the hospital, you took a brief look at my hands and you saw that I am a medical student. What else you can see about me?”

He took a deep breath and admitted to her in a hushed tone, “People usually don’t like when I deduce them… Most of the time, they just want me to shut up.”

“Maybe because they are ashamed of what you’ll reveal… But I don’t remember a thing about me, Sherlock. I have nothing to be ashamed of.” The woman told him honestly.

His piercing eyes watched her closely, trying to detect if she was telling the truth before he began his deductions, “You played guitar for a long time. Started when you were ten, or eleven, but you stopped one or two years ago.”

He observed in silence as she looked down at her own hands, oddly fascinated before she asked, “What else?”

“Your fashion sense is abysmal, but that’s quite easy to figure it out. It just takes one glance at what you chose to buy at that charity shop… And you have a cat. A red, white and black Munchkin.”

Her eyes opened wide and she beamed at the news, “Oh, I have a pet! Wonderful!”

“You smile a lot…The lines around your eyes are barely visible, but in a few years they will worsen, I’m afraid.”

“Oh…Well, “With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.” It’s Shakespeare, isn’t it?”

Sherlock just gave a shrug, “Don’t know. I probably deleted the information to make room for something more important.”

Her face grew serious all of a sudden, a frown appearing on her  face and forehead, “Tell me something, Sherlock. Why is it that I can remember a quote from “The Merchant of Venice”, or that I know my right hand from my left, but I can’t remember what my favourite colour is? Or my favourite flower? Or even my own name…?”

“Maybe you’re lucky.” His deep voice seemed strangely pensive and on the verge of sadness, “There must be a certain freedom that goes with living only in the present tense. At least you don’t have to spend every day trying to forget your past.”

A glass fell from a waiter’s tray, making him pause and, when her gaze went back to him, his expression was inscrutable, “Anyway…I’ve got a present for you.”

“For me?” She inquired, genuinely intrigued.

Sherlock nodded, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly, “I got you a name. I’ve been thinking that I can’t keep going around calling you “her” and “she” all the time. It’s impractical and creates confusion.”

She couldn’t help but smile expectanly, “What is it?”

“How do you feel about Molly?”

She seemed to ponder on it for a minute while the waiter brought them their plates. Sherlock watched her, slightly uneasy that she wouldn’t like the name. It was one he thought of for a while and there was a reason why he wanted to give her that name. Finally, after a few more tense moments, she smiled at him broadly.

“Molly… Molly…” She let the name roll off her tongue, then nodded, satisfied, “Yes, I like it… But why Molly?”

Sherlock took a moment before answering and she was sure a faint blush appeared on his high cheekbones during that interval as he admitted, “When I was a kid, I dreamt to become a pirate”.

He stopped, sure that his confession would draw a laugh from her, but she gave him an encouraging, and frankly unexpected, smile so he continued, “One of my favourite story was “The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders”, by Daniel Defoe. There are few stories about female pirates, and she was so reckless, brave, and unscrupulous as a real pirate should be. Do you know that the novel is based partially on the life of Moll King, a London criminal whom Defoe met while visiting Newgate Prison?”

The woman - Molly- shook her head, a bit disoriented, “So you gave me the name of a fictional pirate, whose life is based on a real criminal?”

Said like that, it surely sounded a bit strange, but Sherlock decided to just nod in response.

“Well, I think it’s quite cool…Who knows, maybe I’m really a criminal and once I recover my memory, you will have to turn me in!” Molly laughed, her eyes shining with mischief.

Sherlock smiled at her funny argument, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m fairly sure that you’re not a criminal. You’re too trustful and naive to be a delinquent.”

“If you say so…At least I hope I’m not a murderer like Rainer Zweig.”

When they returned to the flat, Molly decided to take a shower while Sherlock chose to start his own personal investigation about Margaret Zweig’s vicious murder - just to keep his mind occupied while there was no development on the other case. Not that it annoyed him, honestly. Molly had surely been a better flatmate than Victor Trevor by far. She was less irritating, tidier, and she was definitely not a drug dealer in any sense.

He threw away any recollection of his former flatmate and decided to put on some music. He was sure he had an old recording of Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” performed by Rainer Zweig somewhere. Once he retrieved the old vinyl, he put it on the record player. It was the only gift given to him for his degree that he had not sold to buy himself a dose of heroin.

When Molly left the bathroom, she found him absorbed into looking some crime scene photos on his computer screen while a reviving harmony filled the room. She tiptoed until she was able to look at the screen from behind his shoulders. A woman corpse, covered in blood, appeared before her eyes. She didn’t recoil at the scene, on the contrary, she found it…familiar.

Suddenly, Sherlock jumped to his feet, throwing her off balance and started to leap over the room’s furniture while shouting, “Morons! The world is in the hands of idiots who play with others’ lives!”

Molly followed him while he was cussing at the incompetence of Los Angeles police, “Would you please explain to me what happened?”

He jumped down from the sofa and took her by the shoulders, his opal-like eyes full of excitement. In her opinion, he had never looked more attractive. A blush painted her cheeks and her breathing quickened. He was so close that she could smell him and, needless to say, her body was pleased with that fact and began to heat up.

“Molly! Oh, Molly!” He exclaimed before giving her a quick peck on the lips, “They were a bunch of incapable, ignorant twats! They killed an innocent man! And the proof was right before their eyes the entire time!”

Molly felt befuddled by his senseless proclamation and the peck on the lips he gave her and asked, “I’m sorry, who killed whom?”

Sherlock spun her around as if they were dancing, “The Los Angeles police, Molly! They messed up majestically! And you know why?”

She shook her head, sensing that he would not wait for her answer. Sherlock let her go before jumping onto the couch. Molly should have been worried that he was going to hurt himself, but she rarely got to see this side of him, so excited and passionate about something, that she didn’t have the heart to reprimand him. Instead, she watched him, his eyes bright with exuberance and joy.

“Because Rainer Zweig didn’t kill his wife!” He announced in a satisfied tone before collapsing onto sofa, exhausted.


	6. Chapter 5

 

“You see, the stabbings on her neck are all wrong… Rainer Zweig was taller than his wife, he would have inflicted them downwards, instead they’re marginally upward!”

“So you’re telling me that they killed an innocent man for a crime he didn’t commit? How could they?”, Molly asked, hang in balance between indignation and surprise.

“Because they were idiots, that’s why! They found him over her body, the scissors in his hands… The pathologist was nothing more than an alcoholic amateur, too eager to please the detectives to notice what was in front of his eyes. A tormented celebrity, known for his bad temper, a foreigner genius loathed by his colleagues… It was a blessing, both for the tabloids and the police.”

“It’s so sad... “, she complained. “I told you, that they looked so in love... Poor Rainer and Margaret…”, Molly drawled, before yawning.

Sherlock was already on his desk, typing something on his laptop. “Go to bed… Today it’s been too tiring for you”, he added, with unexpected care.

“What about you? Are you not tired?”, she asked, while heading to what he was already calling as “her room” in his mind.

“My mind is like an engine, on the run… No, I can’t waste time sleeping. I need to disclose this news on my blog. Have I told you about my blog, “The Science of deduction”? No, of course I haven’t…”

His speech was frenetic, almost feverish, and Molly’s mind went back at the small plastic bag, half-full of white powder,  she found the first night in her room, hidden in the false bottom of her dresser. Her quiet “Goodnight" went almost unnoticed to Sherlock, who muttered a distracted “Night" while typing  swiftly.

* * *

 

“ _The huge bedroom was completely dark: she stumbled as she tried to find a lamp. Outside, a storm was raging on; the thunders were so loud that they startled her, making her heart beat wildly._

_A sudden flash from outside lighted up the darkness, and her eyes were drawn to the body lying motionless on the floor. She moved closer, her instinct to help too strong to let fear stop her. There was Margaret Zweig, her throat slashed, the blood already drying on her skin. With trembling hands she tried to take her pulse, but her motion was stopped by a strong grip on her thin wrist. She raised her eyes, and her stare mer a grotesque mask, fixing her with hatred._

“ _You're next…”, his distorted voice promised, as a deformed hand raised a pair of complex golden scissors over her head, before dropping a fatal stab over her throat.”_

“No! Leave me alone, please! Help me!”. Molly’s desperate scream had Sherlock rushing to her in a second. Thankfully this time she had not blocked the door with the chair, and he wasted no time to let her understand that it was only a nightmare. “Molly… Molly, listen to me, you’re fine, none is trying to hurt you”, he reassured her, while stroking her damp hair.

She gasped for air a few times, then she seemed able to breath more calmly. “He was over her corpse, and then he tried to- Oh God, it seemed so real, I could feel the blood pouring out of me…”, she mumbled, and Sherlock was quick to give her an explanation.

“You shouldn’t have watched those pictures… They affected your subconscious…”, but Molly stopped him. “No, there was something… Something I have never seen before. A mask, on his face…”

Sherlock sprinted to the living room and when he came back, he had his laptop. “A mask like this one?”, he asked, showing her a picture of a monstrous-looking black mask. “Rainer’s last project… He was working on an opera about jealousy, and it was found on the crime scene, a few steps away from Margaret’s corpse.”

Molly took a last look at the mask, and shuddered. “That monster… He told me that I was next…”, she sobbed, then spared a look at Sherlock, who was watching her silently. “You must think I’m such a freak…”

“No, I don’t”, was his short reply, before he sat down on the chair by her bed. “There’s no need for you to stay here…”, she told him as he watched him type something on his laptop.

“Do you mind if I listen to some music?”, he asked, ignoring her last statement.

“No, not at all…”, Molly answered, before reclining on the bed.

The soothing notes from “Violin Sonata in A Major” by Schubert filled the small room. Sherlock seemed quite interested by whatever was on his laptop’s screen, and Molly let the music lull her. Only when he was sure she was asleep, he raised his eyes from the screen, and watched her finally rest. Irene Adler’s words continued to echo in his Mind Palace. “Resolve the old trauma and chances are you’ll find out who you are”. The last rebel part of his brain, the one who always shouted to rely to logic, retreated slowly in a dark room, and Sherlock opened a new page on his browser. His fingers didn’t hesitate as he typed a new research, and a tiny smirk appeared on his full lips.

* * *

 

“I have a proposition for you”, Sherlock announced the next morning, and Molly eyed him curiously. He had not been in the room when she woke up, and she suspected he had stayed awake all night.

“What kind of proposition?”. Her mind went back to the previous night, when he had pecked her lips briefly, but dismissed quickly the memory.

“I want to…”, he paused, and she presumed he was doing it only to add more drama to his announce, “Hypnotise you.”

The offer seemed so ridiculous, that she bursted out laughing. “Oh, really?!”

When her laughter stopped, she saw he was watching her sternly. “You weren’t joking, were you?”. He made an offended face, and shook his head.

“Why the sudden change of heart? I remembered you mocking Mr Bach just yesterday about his faith in hypnosis... “

“Maybe I just changed my mind…”, he shrugged, walking to the sofa and Molly followed him. “But you don’t have any experience…”

“I made some research tonight”, Sherlock argued back. “And then I hypnotized myself.” The young woman watched him closely, like she was trying to find something in his eyes; suddenly a large smile appeared on her lips. “Fine, I will let you hypnotize me, but…”

“But what?”

Molly’s eyes were shining with barely repressed excitement. “I will let you hypnotize me, but then I will ask you something afterwards, and you can’t deny my request. Deal?”, she offered him her hands, and he was quick to shook it. “Deal.”

Sherlock didn’t waste any time by leading her to a chair that he had moved to the center of the living room. “Sit down, and hold your arms stretched out directly in front of you, so that the palms of your hands are facing each other”, he instruted, before taking another chair and sitting in front of her.

He moved her hands so that they were about six inches apart, then continued. “You may now lower your hands back to your side. In just a moment I’m going to have you bring your hands back to this position, and you will find it very easy to go into a deep, pleasant level of hypnosis in just a matter of seconds. Would this be alright with you?”

Sherlock waited for Molly to give her consent, and she nodded swiftly. “Very good. Now close your eyes, and take in a couple of deep easy breaths.” He watched her hold her breath for a moment and then exhale slowly.

“In just a moment I am going to have you extend your arms in front of you, just as you had them a moment ago. When I ask you to move your hands to this position I am then going to have you open your eyes, and follow my simple instructions.”

Sherlock let a few second pass. “Remain relaxed, just like this. Now I want you to extend your arms out in front of you just as you had them earlier.” As Molly did as instructed, he held his index finger at eye level, and moved it between her hands.

“Now I want you to concentrate on my finger. In just a moment I am going to move my finger away, and I want you to begin to concentrate on the spot where my finger was.” He moved his finger quickly downwards, and her eyes didn’t follow his motion.

“You are doing very good, Molly. Keep concentrating on the spot where my finger used to be. In a moment I am going to begin to count from 3 down to 1. On the count of one allow your eyes to close.”

Sherlock took a steadying breath, then started to count. “Three, your eyes are feeling heavy, and tired. Two, they are beginning to water, and tear slightly. One, they are so heavy now, aren’t they, Molly? Just allow them to close, and relax.”

He stared at her silently, as her actions followed his instructions. “Even with your eyes closed you can still imagine that spot between your hands, don’t you? Now I am gently touching your hands, and as I do notice that your hands are beginning to move together.” As her hands moved closer, Sherlock raised his hands in a position that would allow him to lightly slap the outside of Molly’s hands, and thus pushing them together.

“In just a moment your hands will touch. As they touch your entire body will feel loose, and limp. You will be going into a very deep hypnotic state. The hands are moving closer, Molly,  and closer. The moment that they touch your whole body becomes lose and limp. You will be going into a very special kind of sleep. Almost there, get ready to let go…”

At the exact moment when Molly’s hands touched, Sherlock firmly slapped the two hands together while giving the command to _sleep_. At the same moment he lightly applied a downward motion to her hands, causing Molly to bend at the waist. He allowed the arms to dangle at her side, and watched her breath calmly for a while.

Then, he finally spoke. “Tell me what you see, Molly.” She beamed at the image appearing before her eyes, and started to talk...

 

“The rain surprised them when they were taking a nightly stroll on the beach. Margaret welcomed the downpour as a pleasant surprise; after two years in Los Angeles, she still found difficult to get used to California’s weather. It was not only a climatic problem: the city was too glamorous, too chaotic, even compared to London. Maybe she had left England too soon… But she couldn’t let Rainer go back home without her; she was sure she would have regretted it for her lifetime.

Rainer’s presence was the only thing to made her try to tolerate Los Angeles; even if their wedding had been more expensive and crowded that she would have liked; even if his governess Hilda and her son Rikert were still living with them, in their huge mansion over Hollywood hills. It was the leitmotif of their arguments: Margaret wanted to move to a smaller residence, where they could remain alone, and Rainer continued to resist, explaining her how he couldn’t throw out Hilda and her son. “To escape Germany, we had to go through mountains. It was a difficult trip, and I fell ill. Hilda and Rik remained with me, even when they could easily leave me there and reach Switzerland faster without me. I owe them my life, and I’m not the kind of men who forget to maintain his vows.”

She had respected his decision, even if it disturbed her how the governess and her son seemed to control every aspect of the house, as if it were theirs. She shook the thought from her head, as Rainer’s voice urged her to run with him to their car.

When they arrived back home, they were soaked. “Oh, look at what I mess I’ve made… This dress is completely ruined!”, she lamented, as she tried to remove her clothes, a task made more difficult as the fabric was almost glued to her skin. When she succeeded, remaining in only her silky slip, letting fall the ruined article of clothing to the floor, she met Rainer’s heated stare. “To me, you look more than fine.”

He offered her a hand, and guided her to the red velvet sofa in the reception room. She ran her delicate hands along the material as they lied down. “We’ll ruin it”, she protested without much conviction, as he started to kiss her neck.

“We’ll buy another one… Now if you excuse me, I have an almost naked woman in my arms, and I don’t want to waste time arguing about furniture…” His voice reverberated across her skin, eliciting shivers all over her body.

Sherlock didn’t know what to do. When Molly had started, he had hoped she could help him uncover some secrets about Rainer and Margaret’s life, something that none else had managed to discover before; he had not expected that she would have started to describe a passionate sex-scene. A sigh coming from her lips distracted him: it was like she was reliving the scene, and his attention went back to her account.

“After two years of marriage, Rainer knew every inch of her body; he knew exactly where to nip, or to brush his long fingers, to make her moan his name; yet, he didn’t feel bored. Every time, he was on a race against himself to make her come harder, to erase every memory of her past orgasm with another one, more mind-blowing than the last. “Take off the slip… And your panties”, he ordered, and her breathing sped up at his demanding tone. She did as he said, and immediately his warm hands covered her perky breasts. He toyed with her nipples for a while, varying the pressure to guess which motion would make her gasp more, and finally let her beg.

“Rainer… Oh please, don’t tease me!”, she half-shouted, this time uncaring if Hilda and Ryk could hear her. He pulled off his shirt clumsily, and fumbled a bit with his trousers and pants before he finally was naked. He let her sit properly on the sofa, before he dropped on his knees beneath her spread legs.

“God, how much I love you when you’re like that, on display, for me… Just for me…”, he groaned, his breath tickling at her inner thighs. Then his delicious mouth was on her, and everything was forgotten: every argument, about the governess, the new home, even her nostalgia for London, vanished. He suckled at her clit, swirling his talented tongue around it, and Margaret couldn’t help herself, as she lifted her pelvis, moaning as his thin moustache titillated her even more. Oh, it was the most sublime feeling in the world…”, Molly drawled, and in that moment Sherlock was sure that he had make a great mistake.

He crossed his legs, letting out a soft curse as he sensed the telltale of an erection to show. He was grateful that Molly couldn’t see him: maybe the embarrassment would help to let the obnoxious feelings to subside, or even better, maybe he could stop Molly… “Don’t you dare!”, a malicious voice in his head commanded, and for once, Sherlock decided to not pull the rein on his normally braked libido. On the other hand, stopping Molly didn’t seem practicable: she was so engrossed  in her narration, that he didn’t know what kind of damage he would cause by interrupting her. So, he decided to do the contrary.

“And then, what happened next?”, he murmured, scolding himself as he heard his longing tone.

“Then, she fell apart… She came on his tongue, and he drank every drop of her essence, as a thirsty man in the desert. “Just make love to me, Rainer…”, she implored, and he didn’t waste time to oblige her. He was inside of her, all of his thick and long cock, so fast that she felt her breath rush from her lungs.” Molly paused, and Sherlock found himself enthralled by her soft voice, telling him the intimate encounter of two strangers.

“Her knees hugged his chest, and his hands slipped up her thighs to push her legs further back, his fingers digging into her flesh as he lifted her up to meet his frantic thrusts. Margaret was halfway through another orgasm, and he sensed it, speeding up his momentum, as the need to loose himself in her became more urgent. Her nails marked his back, while the only sounds they could hear were the slap of their sweaty skin meeting, while he pumped furiously into her. She half-shouted, arching her back as her climax drew her muscles tight. His cock jerked inside her, and he groaned sated, as his hot pulse filled her.”

She took another pause, and he counted every drop of perspiration that dotted her blushing face. He was a filthy person, having an erection as a woman, whom he barely knew, told him a detailed sexual act performed by two deceased. Her quite voice once again interrupted his self-directed reprimand.

“Rainer lifted his head as he kissed his wife, slow and sweet, propped up on his elbows on either side of her, his fingers stroking through her hair. “I love you, more than you could possibly imagine. Nothing would separate us, Margaret.”

“Nothing, my love? Are you sure?”, she challenged him. “Nothing…”, he reassured his wife. “Not even death.”

A lonely tear fell from Molly’s eyes. “It was their last time together…”. Her breathing grew laboured, and Sherlock decided that it was time to wake her up.

Molly heard a finger snap, and she blinked herself awake. She felt flushed, and as her eyes fell on Sherlock, sitting awkwardly on the chair, his legs crossed, she could see his cheeks growing rosy, too. She cleared her throat, the recollection of what she had experience during the hypnosis state making her feeling suddenly quite thirsty. She was getting up to take a glass of water, when Sherlock sprinted to his feet, and overtook her, heading quickly to the bathroom.

When she heard the shower, she understood that he was not coming back, so she busied herself by preparing tea, and making her bed. When she returned to the kitchen, he found him at the table, sipping his tea.

Molly let a creamy envelope fall on the table, just by his cup. He eyed it for a moment, then decided to speak. “Where did you find it?”

“It was sticking out from behind the dresser… You’re invited to a wedding today, Sherlock!”

“So what?”, he shrugged, and Molly grew frustrated by his apathy. “You owe me a favour, Sherlock… And I’m cashing it, right now. Bring me to your friend Victor’s wedding!”

 

 


	7. Chapter 6

“No.” Sherlock didn’t add anything else, as he got up and went to his bedroom, slamming the door.

Molly expected that reaction, so she didn’t miss a beat and approached the door. She could hear him walking back and forth, then the sound of his steps stopped, replaced by  the noise made by him rummaging in his wardrobe. He seemed to be able to find whatever he was looking for, because in a moment the furious twang of a violin, played angrily, reverberated in the flat.

“I didn’t know that you played the violin…”, Molly admitted, and just for a second he stopped playing, before resuming furiously.

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Molly…”. His voice grew louder to dominate the violin. “And you know why? Because they are not your business!”

“But you promised me, Sherlock! We had a deal, and you are obtusely reneging on it just because you’re afraid.”

Her last remark made him stop playing. He opened the door abruptly, and she nearly fell into the room. “Why are you saying that? I’m not afraid, and you don’t know a thing! You literally can’t remember your own name, and yet here you stand, convinced that you’ve already figured me out . You’re just a conceited, dull and stupid lost girl who clings to me, hoping that someone else will solve the mess you’ve made.”

Molly took a deep breath, letting his harsh words wash over her. She knew he was attacking her just to deflect her attention from the core of their argument. “It’s true: I can’t remember a thing about my life; all I have are these memories about a couple whose lives ended tragically, and I don’t know why they keep crowding together in my mind, taking the place of all my real memories. But I still have my eyes, and what I see is a man who is trying to ignore a problem, instead of solving it. And from what I’ve learned about you in these few days, that’s not you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock remained silent, his eyes growing cold as he pondered how to reply. “So you think you can see me, after a few days of knowing me. Do you want to know what I can see when I look at you, instead? Someone who is alone, and is afraid of their loneliness. Someone who is terrified of the fact that none, in the last week, had tried to find them. Someone, who prefers to live with no memories, instead of knowing that they had none in their lives who minds if they are dead or alive.”

Molly gaped at him, trying desperately to not cry. She could feel her eyes brimming with tears, threatening to fall at the next blink, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction to see her sobbing in front of him. She straightened her back, while her lips remained tightened, and she headed to her room, without saying a word.

Sherlock waited for the door to close softly, before scolding himself. He knew what would made her suffer, and he had used it, without holding back; and what for? Only because he didn’t want to admit to himself that thinking about Victor - the one he had thought was his only friend, his best friend, the one who had continued to sell drugs even when he was fresh out of rehab, the one who had tempted him with a last dose just the day before he found the strength to throw him out of his flat- made him feel weak and doubtful.

Molly didn’t deserve his anger; Victor did. He had promised to his brother that he wouldn’t make a scandal, because Victor’s family was too important for Mycroft’s career to ruin their reputation by revealing that their son was a drug dealer, a junkie, and not the perfect man they believed him to be; but he had also made a vow to Molly, when she let him try to hypnose her just to find more clues about Margaret’s death.

He went to his desk, and wrote a few words on the back of Victor’s and Violet’s wedding announcement; then he let it slide under Molly’s door, before going to his room. There he opened his wardrobe and took out his best outfit. He was trying to choose which shirt would be better, when he heard Molly’s soft steps approaching him.

“I- I accept your excuse. And you’re right, you can be quite a pain in the arse when you want to…”, she finished, a shy smile appearing on her lips.

“Be quick then, and go prepare yourself. That dress you bought the other day… I think it flatters your body type quite well.”

She blushed at his compliment, then hesitated. “But I don’t have any-”

“Don’t worry yourself with make-up… You don’t need it. Whatever lipstick could do little to improve your lips, and…” He stopped when he realised that he was being too honest, again. “What I mean is, that your complexion is quite lovely even without foundation and blush… And now go, I will explain my plan to you later.”

“Plan? What plan?”

Sherlock let a smirk play on his handsome face. “The one to ruin Victor Trevor’s wedding, of course!”

* * *

When they arrived at the reception, it was already quite late. Behind the Trevor’s mansion, under an enormous white gazebo, the guests were mingling, while the waiters offered champagne and a creamy, expensive-looking, wedding cake.

When she looked at the women, all dressed in fancy and overpriced gowns, Molly grew over-conscious of her cheap dress. Yes, it was vintage, and even Sherlock had reassured her that the bright yellow complimented her figure, but…

“Don’t overthink it… Tonight, all the eyes are on the bride and the groom, and that’s exactly what we need.” Sherlock offered her his arm, and she took it, letting him guide her to the happy couple. She recognised them from the picture in her room: Victor was tall and athletic, well aware of his attractiveness; Violet instead didn’t seem comfortable at all, surrounded by her chattering guests.

When Victor spotted Sherlock, he froze; Molly could see it in his eyes, how he had not imagined that his former friend would come to his wedding. He had sent the invite only to rub into his face how successful, and above the law, he was.

Nevertheless, he welcomed them with a bright smile. “Sherlock! I’m so happy you are here!” the hug didn’t surprise Sherlock; he forced himself to return it with all the fake warmth he could muster.

“My brother and my parents send you their best wishes…”, he started, then saw Victor’s eyes scan over Molly. “Oh, where are my manners? Victor, let me introduce you to my girlfriend, Molly.”

Molly was sure that Victor’s eyes would burst out of his socket, if Violet had not reached them. “So, Sherlock Holmes, don’t tell me that you have no intention to kiss the bride…” She embraced him, and this time Sherlock’s courtesy didn’t seem so forced.

“Violet, you look radiant. I wish you all the best…” The bride smiled in return, before focusing her attention on Molly. “I think none introduce us. I’m Violet Harper, nice to meet you, Ms…?”

Sherlock put his arms around Molly’s waist, and bent to peck her on the forehead. “She’s my Molly. My lovely, sweet Molly…” She stiffened in his embrace, then felt his lips tickling her ear. “Relax, Molly…”, he whispered, and she smiled shyly at the newlyweds.

“Oh, you look so cute together…”, Violet beamed at them. The little jazz orchestra started to play a 40’s classic, and the bride almost pushed them on the dancefloor. “Oh, Sherlock, dance with your girl while I try to find a table for you two… I’ve always enjoyed see you dancing, you’re such a natural talent!”

Sherlock offered Molly his hand. “I think we have no choice, darling…” She looked at him warily. “I don’t think I know how to dance, Sherlock!”, she whispered to him hurriedly, as her ballet shoes (another purchase at the charity shop) almost slipped on the floor.

“Don’t worry… Loosen up a bit, and follow me”. He put his big hands on her slim waist, and waited until she placed her hands on his wide shoulders. “Let’s face the music, and dance…”

She watched mesmerized as Sherlock let her body brush lightly against his, while singing the song’s words under his breath.

_“The way your smile just beams_

_The way you sing off key_

_The way you haunt my dreams_

_No they can't take that away from me”_

 

For a moment, she could almost imagine another dancefloor, many years ago, where Margaret and Rainer would dance the same song until their feet hurt, while looking longingly to one another. She felt her breath stop in her throat, as her eyes caught Sherlock’s, and he smiled at her lovingly.

 

_We may never never meet again, on that bumpy road to love_

_But I'll always, always keep the memory of_

_The way you hold your knife_

_The way we danced till three_

_The way you changed my life_

_No they can't take that away from me_

 

She knew he was only faking it, but for a moment, she hoped it was all true, and not a charade to fool Victor. With shaky fingers, she caressed his nape, fearing he would stop her. He didn’t, but with one hand on his waist and the other caressing her cheek, he guided her face until it was pressed gently on his chest. Molly could hear her heart thumping, or maybe it was his?

She raised her gaze, and found him staring at her strangely. His eyes shifted from her eyes to her mouth, and for a moment she felt enraptured by the new light in his look.

“Hey, you two! The music has stopped… Come to your table!”. Violet’s bright voice interrupted the moment; Molly watched as Sherlock moved his hands from her waist, and almost caressing the small of her back, he guided her to where the bride was waiting for them.

“Drink all the champagne you want, and eat this delicious cake!”, she ordered and moved to reach her newly husband, who eyed them suspiciously. Sherlock and Molly greeted the other guests, but remained mostly silent, waiting for the right moment to come.

When the best man finished his drunk speech, Molly knew that it was time for the show to begin. She watched as Sherlock left the table, a small package in his hands, and approached Victor at his table.

“This is my wedding gift to you, Victor…”, he announced, while the groom turn it in his hands.

“You shouldn’t have, Sherlock… The best gift for us is having you here, enjoying our wedding with us…”Violet’s kind words made Molly almost regret what was about to happen. She watched as Victor opened the packet, and the cocaine dose fell on the table.

Everyone froze. Molly watched as Sherlock smirked at Victor, who was shaking in anger. From a deep recess in her mind, Molly knew it was only because of the large amount of adrenaline and oxygen in his bloodstream that his extremities were trembling, and she tried to hold on to that notion, hoping that it would lead her to another memory, but Sherlock’s deep voice brought her back to reality.

“You see, Victor, this is not really a gift. I’m simply returning to you what you left deliberately in your room, hoping I would use it and come back to you, begging for another dose. I thank you for the kind thought, but as I told you before, I don’t need it anymore”. He turned to Violet, and smiled at her cheerfully. “Best wishes, Violet. And Victor… Thank you for inviting me, it’s been a wonderful party!”

Victor’s and Violet’s parents started to get up, and Sherlock decided that it was time to take their leaving. He returned to the table and grasped Molly’s hand, dragging her along with him. “Quick… I think the party is going to degenerate very soon!”. They ran until they reached the mason’s gates, where the cab was already waiting for them. They dashed inside, and only then they took a deep breath.

“Oh my God… You’ve been amazing!”, Molly started, her eyes shining from excitement. “I know I can't remember a thing about my life, but  I’m quite sure that this is the most dangerous and impressive thing I’ve ever done in my life!”

Sherlock couldn’t repress his smirk. “It’s been quite good, isn’t it? But I couldn’t have done it without you, Molly”. The same light that had come to his gaze before, on the dancefloor, was now back. She watched as his pupils dilated, and her throat became suddenly dry, as he took her hand in his, before raising it to his mouth, and caressing it with his full lips. He then lowered it and  turned, looking outside the cab’s window, but never leaving her hand.

When they arrived back to the flat, Molly decided that it was time to say something. She knew that something had shifted between them, and she couldn’t ignore it.

He had just closed the door when she began. “Sherlock, I-”. the words died on her lips as he kissed her tenderly. When his lips left hers, he gazed at her intensely. “What I’ve done, it’s probably very wrong, and if you don’t want to-”

“I want to”, she breathed out. “God, If I want to… It’s just that… I know something is supposed to happen now, but I just don’t remember what.”

Sherlock lead her to the sofa, and waited until she sat down next to him. He then put a hand around her waist, and pressed his body against hers, waiting for her to make the next move. When she tentatively wrapped her arms around his neck, and started to press her lips on his neck, kissing lightly his skin, he let out a shaky breath. “That’s a lot like what happens…”

She felt emboldened by his praise, and let her lips wander, until she reached his lobe and sucked it. The feeling shot straight to his groin, and he writhed away from her mouth. When she looked at him, he offered her his hand.

“Bedroom. Now.” He lead her to his bedroom, and stopped just a few feet from his bed. “This is a very pretty dress... “ His eyes moved over her body, appreciatively. “Now turn around, so I can get you out of it.”

Molly turned slowly, and held her breath as Sherlock stepped behind her, and smoothly pulled the zipper down. His palms followed the path the fabric took, every brush of his fingerpads on her skin igniting a searing stream of pleasure on her skin. The dress fell on the floor, and she shivered.

“Are you cold?”. His question made her smile. “No… Not at all…”, she answered, as she moved her hand at the bra’s clasp on her back. When she turned, he was unbuttoning his shirt. He looked fit; red hair lightly shadowing his tight chest, a few freckles on his shoulders, that she couldn’t wait to count with her lips. Suddenly he crushed her to him, his bare skin on hers making her temperature raise once again.

His hand tangled in her hairs, Sherlock kissed her lightly at first, deepening it until they were both breathless. The green and blue of his irises were almost gone when he lifted his head to ask “Are you sure?”

Molly didn’t know if she was usually so bold; in the end, she didn’t really care. She pushed him on the bed, and crawled on top of him, slowly lowering his trouser’s zipper. He stopped to breath as she carefully undress him, leaving him naked. Her delicate fingers brushed over his swollen cock with reverence, and he closed his eyes, before letting out a strangled cry. “Please…”

She stopped, and he opened his eyes. She looked so innocent, yet so enticing. He sat up, until she was almost sitting on his lap. He brushed a finger on his panties, and she sucked a breath. He did it again, and again, until her panties became almost plastered to her vulva. He let his other hand playing with one of her nipple, until he lowered his head to put it in his mouth and suckle it gently. He paid the same attention to the other, slowly inserting his fingers under her panties. Her ragged breaths grew shallow as he circled her opening, before he started to slip one finger, then two, inside her, slowly. He dropped kisses on her collarbone, on her face, on her open lips, as he guided her deeper to her orgasm.

When she came, he couldn’t stop to look at her; she was so beautiful, riding her orgasm freely, that he couldn’t wait to see it again. He let her lay down on the sheets, easing down from her peak, as he rummaged in his drawer for a condom.

As he put it on , he caught her looking at his member. “I would understand, if you didn’t want-” She stopped him by lowering her hand to his cock, and starting to stroke it. He watched her licking her lips as she did it, and all his hesitation was gone. In a moment he was on her, covering her body, the tip of his cock pushing inside her. Molly held her breath, then relaxed as her body opened reluctantly, taking him in.

He braced himself with a hand against the bed and gasped, “Oh Molly, you’re so tight…” She lifted up, taking him deeper. He groaned, as he pulled back, before slowly pushing him again. Her fingers circled his biceps, as he pumped into her. As she neared another climax, she felt his fingers circling her clit, and her body tensed once more. “Come, Molly…”, he ordered, and so she did. Sherlock wasn’t far behind her, and he sped his thrusts until finally he throbbed inside her.

As he eased out and rose from the bed to go to the bathroom, Molly watched his slim form, asking herself what she was supposed to do. Remain there? Go back to her bedroom?

When he returned back, still gloriously naked, and lay down on his stomach, she tentatively approached his body, until she was resting near him. “You can touch me, Molly… If you want.”

Smiling to herself, she shifted until her head was resting on his shoulder blade, and he groaned a satisfied “Goodnight”, as her breath caressed his skin.

* * *

 

A thunderstorm was raging outside, the rain violently pelting the window. Sherlock woke up, watching Molly sleep, sprawled on the other side of the bed: she had moved in her sleep, taking all the sheets with her. Suddenly she turned, her eyes wide open but unfocused, like she was not recognising him. Out of the darkness, her hand raised a pair of scissors.

“These are for you!”, she sneered, as she plunged the scissors into his throat.

Sherlock opened his eyes, sitting up as a drop of sweat dropped from his unruly hair to his throat.

“Fuck, now I’m dreaming this shit, too…”, he muttered. He watched Molly sleeping soundly beside him,and fought the urge to take her back into his arms. Instead he got up of bed, and went to the living room, watching the rain pour outside.


	8. Chapter 7

When Molly woke up, she found herself alone in Sherlock’s bed. His side felt cold under her hand, and she let out a shaky breath, recalling what had happened between them after the wedding party. Twice…

She felt a little sore, and when she jumped out of the bed, she grimaced at the tender feeling in her muscles. She searched for Sherlock in the kitchen, in the bathroom, but he was nowhere to find. And he had left no messages for her, too. Why should he have to? Obviously, the experience didn’t have had the same effect on him, she pondered, as she tried to imagine where he was now.

* * *

_Meanwhile, in South Croydon…_

Finding Kitty Riley had been quite difficult. After Rainer Zweig’s death, she wrote a few books about the murder, than she disappeared. It was like telling his story had completely drained her; she had left Los Angeles, its scandals and glamorous life, and travelled around the world, looking for the next scoop. Strangely, it always eluded her; she arrived too early, or left too soon. It was like her intuition had vanished along with Rainer Zweig’s death.

Thankfully for Sherlock, she had been the one who contacted him on his blog, asking him to visit her at the rest home where she lived, just outside London. It intrigued her, how after many years someone else had the arrogance to say that Rainer was innocent. When he had found the message that morning, he had hesitated: maybe he should have told Molly that he was going out, maybe she would have liked to come with him… Or maybe, he should have simply stayed home, and enjoy her presence in his bed for a little while longer. But the thrill of being just one step away from solving the mystery had been too strong, and he had decided to let her rest, and take a cab to St John’s Nursing Home, to visit a ninety-year-old who probably couldn’t remember what she had eaten at breakfast.

“Ms Riley is waiting for you, Mr Holmes”, the nurse announced, as she opened the room’s door. Kitty Riley was sitting by the window, staring out at the garden. As Sherlock approached her slowly, her eyes lit up. She held an electrolarynx to a small hole in her throat, and started to speak. Her voice was obviously raspy, almost robotic. “So you are the young man who thinks that Los Angeles police framed an innocent man, more than fifty years ago…”

“And you are, I’m sure, the oldest follower of my blog, Miss Riley… And the last person who spoke with Rainer Zweig before he took his own life.”, he replied.

Kitty Riley smirked to him. “You remind me of him, Mr Holmes. So charmingly rude, so full of yourself… But I’m sure you didn’t come here only to talk about my age, Mr Holmes. You want to disclose the identity of the true murderer of Margaret, don’t you?”

Sherlock took out a pack of cigarettes from his leather jacket’s pocket. “You suffered from cancer of the larynx for a long time, at least one decade, before you finally agreed to have your voicebox removed, fifteen years ago.” He took out a cigarette, and lit it, savouring the flavour in his mouth before exhaling a cloud of smoke. The old woman breathed it in, like it were the sweetest taste in the world.

“Give me one”, her robotic voice demanded.

He shook his head. “Oh, Miss Riley, you’re not allowed to smoke… Look what cigarettes did to you”, he mocked her.

“One cigarette, and I will reveal what I’ve never told anyone else. I will tell you what Rainer whispered to my ear, before they brought him to the death row.”

Sherlock eyes gleamed. “Oh, but I’m not even remotely interested in it. Who cares about the last words spoken by a man who had already decided to kill himself? No, what I want to know, is what happened to Rainer’s governess and her son, Rikert.

* * *

 

_Meanwhile, at the flat at Montague Street…_

Molly was trying to avoid thinking about Sherlock, and about what had happened the night before, when she heard someone knocking on the door. Cautiously, she moved towards it and look into the peephole: Greg Lestrade’s cheerful face appeared, and she opened the door.

“I have great news for you!”, he called, but obviously he obtained no answer.

“If you're looking for Sherlock, he went out very early this morning, I don’t know where he went, I’m sorry…” she explained, and Lestrade nodded. “Typical of Sherlock… Always on the move! But it’s you I want to speak with. You see, this morning I received a phone call from a colleague from Scotland. Someone recognised your photo.”

“Who? Where? So now you know who I am, don’t you?”, she poured her questions over the DI frantically, and the man smiled at her understandable excitement.

“One of your friend, Meena Bhakta, told us that she was waiting for you to return last night, after you left Edinburgh ten days ago, to visit…”. He stopped, the hesitation clear in his voice.

“To visit whom?”, she prompted.

“Your father’s grave, at the Islington and Camden Cemetery. Your friend told us that you come here every anniversary of his death, after he passed away three years ago.”

Molly took a deep breath. Sherlock had been wrong, someone was looking for her; not a family member, just a friend, but for her it was enough. “What- What is my name?”

In that moment, she saw a shadow appear behind Lestrade, lifting a small mallet over his head. She didn’t have time to warn him, as the blow fell forcefully on his cranium. Professor Bach’s creepy smile came out of the darkness. She called for help, as he closed the door and bypassed the DI’s prone form, before pushing her on the sofa.

“Hello, my dear... “

* * *

_Meanwhile, in South Croydon…_

“Why do you want to know?”. Kitty’s metallic voice asked, genuinely intrigued. She could see that the young man was pretty much vibrating, waiting to make his great revelation.

“Let’s just say that I’m curious…”

Kitty Riley extended her wrinkled hand. “Let me take a drag, and I will tell you.”

He watched the hall, waiting for the right moment, then handed her the cigarette. When she exhaled, the smoke came out from the small hole in her throat, directly in Sherlock’s face.

“I tried to interview the governess, Ingrid, after the murder, but she denied me. It was strange, because she was my spy. That’s how I knew about the fights between Rainer and Margaret. She stopped talking to me after Margaret’s death.”

“And you didn’t find it suspicious?”

Kitty shrugged. “I just thought she didn’t need the money anymore. She and the boy inherited the mansion, and all Rainer’s possessions. Then, in the late sixties, they sold the house and left Los Angeles. They travelled for a while, then settled down here, in London, and used the money left to open some kind of shop. She must be dead, but Rikert could be still alive. Funny, isn’t it? We all came here, where Margaret and Rainer met and fell in love.”

Sherlock ignored her last remark. “What kind of shop?”

She took one last drag, watching pensively the cigarette exhale its last breath. “Antiques, I think.”

Sherlock felt the familiar sensation of adrenaline rushing through his veins: his left knee started to move up and down quickly, and he put a hand on it to stop the motion, while Mycroft’s obnoxious voice mocked him in his head. “ _Oh, Sherlock,_ _what do we say about coincidence? Universe is rarely so lazy…”_

“Bach Antiques? Near Eaton Square?”

“Bach, you say? I don’t know, it could be… But I remember little Ryk’s last name wasn’t Bach. It was something different. It started with an M, maybe… Morley? No, it was… Moriarty. His name was Moriarty, Rikert Moriarty.”

Kitty watched with amazement as the young man sprinted out of the room, taking out his mobile phone and calling a cab. From her window, she watched him ran through the park’s paths, until she lost sight of him.

* * *

Molly couldn’t believe her ears. Professor Bach had tied her to a chair, fastened a silken handkerchief over her mouth, and now was explaining to her why he had to kill her.

“You see, I met you before. You don’t remember it, of course, but last week, you came to my shop, and bought an insignificant trinket I’ve had on display for a long time, since we arrived here from Los Angeles. Rainer had bought it here in London, for Margaret. A worthless claddagh ring, that none had wanted… Until you.”

She eyed Lestrade’s body on the floor, hoping he would wake up; the DI was still unconscious, a rivulet of fresh blood on his nape.

Bach took a pair of scissors out of his blazer’s pocket, and watched it pensively. “He left Los Angeles, and when he returned, he was married. It seemed like he had forgotten us, my mother and me, and all we did for him. When we escaped from Germany, and fell ill in the mountain, he didn’t want to go on. He would have died, it had not been for my mother. She cured him, and saved his life. In return, he brought us with him to America.”

A sad smile escaped his lips. “My mother had been in love with Rainer for a long time. I think she didn’t realise it, until he met Margaret, and married her. Then, it was too late.”

Molly’s breathing started to quicken, panic seeping through her mind. Last night she was so happy, and serene; and now, a lunatic old man was preparing to kill her. A man she had trusted with her mind, while Sherlock repeated over and over again how unconvinced he was by his antics. Oh, Sherlock… She would not see him again, she would not have the occasion to say that even if her memories would never come back, she would be happy all the same, because she had met him…

Bach’s mellifluous voice brought her back to reality. “That day… I heard my mother confessing her love to him. But he refused her: he didn’t want to hear what she had to say; on the contrary, he announced her that he agreed with Margaret, and that we should move out of the house. My mother tried to explain it to me… But the only thing on my mind was that we were so happy, before that stupid woman came into our lives. There was the only thing to do: she was the one who needed to go away.”

The sound of hurried steps outside made him pause. “Oh, he’s finally here! Are you happy, darling? Your knight in shining armour, coming to try to save you…”

The door slammed open, and a disheveled Sherlock appeared on the threshold. “Professor Bach, I see that you made yourself at home. Or should I call you by your real name, Mr Moriarty?”

The old man moved to Molly’s side, the scissors shimmering in his hand. “Stop! Stop or I will cut her throat!”

Sherlock stepped over Lestrade’s body, seemingly paying no attention to his state. “Do as you please. She means nothing to me…” He watched as her eyes started to brim with tears, and forced himself to ignore the pang of remorse clutching his chest.

“You, on the other hand… You intrigue me, Mr Moriarty. You fooled a lot of people, for a very long time. You’ve been quite lucky, too: Rainer didn’t say anything. He thought he owed you something… Or stupidly, he just didn’t want to live anymore, not without his Margaret. It’s just a pity for you that I’m not an idiot like the others. But please, continue your story…”

He sat down on the sofa, his hand assuming his thinking pose, with his hands under the chin.

“Do- Do you want to hear my st- story?”. Unexpectedly the old man started to stutter.

Sherlock smirked at him. “Oh yes, now I remember! Kitty Riley described you in one of her books as “A timid, stammering young boy”. Do you remember Ms Riley, Rikert? She was the one to whom your mother feed her lies about the Zweig’s troubled married life.”

“I stopped to stutter after m- my mother took me to a specialist. He used hypnosis to cure me. Later, he became my mentor: he taught me about the subconscious, and the reincarnation. From then on, I became sure that Margaret  would come after me, to take her revenge.” He spared a look to Molly, and caressed her hair; she recoiled at his touch, a lone tear falling on her cheekbone, while she struggled to get away from his hand.

“I wanted to find her before she could find me. When I hypnotised you, I knew I had finally found what I’ve been looking for, for all my life.”

It all happened in a moment: the professor raised his hand to deliver the cutting blow, as Molly finally untied the knot on her wrists.

“Molly, duck!”, Sherlock ordered, as he launched himself against Moriarty. They struggled for a bit, the old man surprisingly strong. Molly watched as he tried to stab Sherlock, and made her decision: she bit into his wrist, and his hold on the scissors slacken off, until they fell on the floor. She picked the tool up, and watched it curiously. Sherlock stared at her curiously, until she watched her lift them above her head.

“This is for Margaret, and Rainer!”, she said, before slashing them into Moriarty’s thigh. She watched fascinated as the blood flew copious, drenching quickly the man’s trousers, before the first drop fell to the floor. Then something switched on: she pushed Sherlock away from him, and removed her t-shirt to press it forcefully on the wound.

“Call an ambulance, now!”, she ordered, and stared at Sherlock, who remained motionless by her side.

“I said, now!”, she repeated, and finally Sherlock moved. “Check Lestrade’s vitals, and report them to the paramedics. Oh, and tell them that we have a seventy-year-old man with a cut on his superficial femoral artery. It’s not life-threatening, but it would be better if they could come here very fast.”

  


When the ambulance arrived, Lestrade had finally regained consciousness. The paramedics insisted to take Molly to the hospital, too: she trembled, and sweated profusely, and they suspected she was suffering from a panic attack.

“You can come with us, if you want”, a doctor told Sherlock. He remained silent, and she closed the door. From inside, he could see Molly stare at him, until the ambulance turned the corner, and disappeared from his view.

 


	9. Epilogue

_Two days later_

He had not come to see her at the hospital. To tell the truth, he had not come to pay a visit to DI Lestrade, too, and he had known the policeman for a longer time. Frankly, what did she expect? That he would arrive with a bouquet of roses, asking her to not go back to Edinburgh, where she had discovered she was studying Pathology? That he would admit to her that the night they had spent together was the best of his life? That he had fell in love with her, like it happened to Rainer Zweig with Margaret, and couldn’t bear to imagine his life without her?

Now that little fragments of her life were starting to be put back together, she knew that she was not the kind of woman who became infatuated with a stranger; she was the kind of person who took her studies, her future career, in great consideration, and wouldn’t risk them for a silly crush.

Nevertheless, she was standing on the pavement, facing his door, trying to muster enough courage to use the key that Lestrade had lent her. She clutched the brown paper bag in her left hand, and she heard it rip.

“This is ridiculous… Woman up, Hooper, and open the damn door!” A few pedestrians looked at her funnily, and she decided to follow her inner voice’s advice.

As she walked inside, a shiver ran down her spine; in the dim light, she could still see the bloodstain on the wooden floor, where she had stabbed Professor Bach, or Moriarty, or whatever his damned name was.

“I thought you were already back home”. Sherlock’s deep voice startled her; she watched with wide eyes as he came out of his bedroom, wearing a flawless black suit. The first two buttons of his white shirt were open, and she could spot a fading hickey just over his _scalenus anterior._

“Meena is waiting for me at the coffee shop around the corner” she half-whispered. She thought he would not be home, so she could just leave the bag and go away, undisturbed. A sudden thought occurred to her. “Meena is my friend… Did Lestrade tell you-”

“That they finally found out who you are? Yes, he sent me a text two days ago.” His kaleidoscopic eyes seemed to look her up and down, searching for something specific.

“I just wanted to… I came here to…” Words failed her; even better, she had too much to tell him. So, she decided to say nothing at all.

“This is for you”, she handed him the paper bag, and he accepted it mechanically. “It’s just to thank you, for everything you’ve done.”

Sherlock gazed at her skeptically. “I merely put you up… I wasn’t able to solve the case.”

“But you did! You solved Margaret and Rainer’s case, and therefore helped me, in some way or other.” She watched him place the bag on the floor. “Open it up, please.”

Sherlock indulged her, and pulled out a blue tweed coat. He examined it closely, snorting when he looked at the tag still hanging from it. “You and your obsession with charity shops…”

She beamed at him, as she saw him smirking at her. “You don’t have to wear it. It’s just that Lestrade told me that he’s finally allowing you to be a consultant to Scotland Yard, and I thought that you needed something more elegant than your leather jacket.”

The newly self-appointed consulting detective eyed her curiously. “I think my tailor would be able to use it as a model…”

She took a look to the wristwatch that Meena had brought to her. “I have to go… My train is in just an hour.”

Sherlock took a step forward, and extended his hand. She shook it gingerly, forcing herself to ignore the memories of the last time she had touched him; it was useless, because she was sure they would fill up her dreams for a long time.

He took a deep breath, savouring the feeling of her soft skin over his, trying to suppress the instinct to pull her to him, and do something stupid. His sheets still had their mixed scent all over them, and he couldn’t  find the courage to put them into the washing machine. He would do it, he knew he would; just, not yet.

“Goodbye, Emmaline Marie Hooper”

She shook her head. “Call me Molly, please. Meena told me that it was the nickname my parents used to call me, so, you see, you used the right name all the time.”

The corner of his mouth lifted up, as he bent to leave a quick peck on her cheek. “Goodbye, Molly Hooper. I hope you’ll be very happy. You deserve it.”

She took a step back, and watched him for a last time. “Until next time, Sherlock Holmes”, were her last words, as she walked out the door, to start her journey back home.

_Fin_

 


End file.
